Tag Archives: crime

FCM025 – The Ballad of Bubba & Rooster

FCM025 - The Ballad of Bubba and Rooster
Welcome to Flashcast Minisode 025 – The Ballad of Bubba & Rooster
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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.

    True Crime Tuesday: Tyranny of Technology Edition

    Play it Hard
    Technology can bring us together, but, as Westword.com reports, technology can also tear us apart:

    The reason for the call was initially described as an assault. But the BCSO says subsequent investigation revealed that the twelve-year-old Boulder County girl, who isn’t being identified due to her age, had tried to kill her mother on two separate occasions[.]

    The first try allegedly took place on March 2.

    How does a twelve-year-old attempt murder? Well, if they can’t wait for a gun show to pass through town…

    The mother began feeling ill after drinking a breakfast smoothie,

    Afterward, she noticed the distinct smell of bleach, the BCSO maintains.

    Of course, many mothers want to believe the best of their children.

    At first, she thought the girl had cleaned the glass with bleach and failed to rinse all of it out.

    – yet many children don’t care what you think, Moooooooom.

    Later that same week, however, she learned differently, owing to attempt number two.

    In that instance, the BCSO says the girl poured bleach into a water carafe her mom keeps in her bedroom.

    Fortunately, the mom didn’t take a big swig of the stuff.

    So what could possibly have been the source of such familial strife? What lofty reasons could the girl have for such Shakespearean-level treachery as attempted matricide?

    After scenting bleach again, she confronted her daughter, who’s said to have told her that she had decided to kill her because she’d taken away the girl’s iPhone.

    1948 Startling Comics by Alex Schomberg
    Technology isn’t done with us however – in fact, technology never rests, as discovered by Triston Home, a man who worried he was sharing his ex-wife-but-still-you-know.

    The Smoking Gun reports:

    Clark invited Horne over on July 1 to spend the night because “he was going to take her to work” the following day, cops noted.

    Now, given the situation, I can see how passions might rise. How emotions might grow heavy.

    Especially when Home found Clark’s secret.

    While in Clark’s bedroom, the duo quarreled. When Clark repaired to the bathroom, Horne barged in and “began accusing her of cheating on him. He told her that she was cheating on him with a sex toy,” according to the affidavit.

    Perhaps she’s just the love of his life and he has some deeply held belie-

    Clark told cops that she used to be married to Horne, but “later learned that Triston was already married to another person and that their marriage was null and void.”

    Black Abyss

    FP416 – Mulligan Smith in Skipping a Beat: a Molly Blackhall Chronicle

    Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode four hundred and sixteen.

    Flash PulpTonight we present Mulligan Smith in Skipping a Beat: a Molly Blackhall Chronicle

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    This week’s episodes are brought to you by Green Light, Red Light


    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 and lifelong resident of Capital City, finds himself drawn to the edge of civilization by one Molly Blackhall.


    Mulligan Smith in Skipping a Beat: a Molly Blackhall Chronicle

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


    There were no windows in the room, only empty expanses of bare plywood nailed onto a sloppily erected frame. To Mulligan’s left was a door, to his right a simple table holding a camping lantern that acted as the sole source of light. Beneath him was a creaking wooden chair to which he’d been zip-tied, and before him sat the man with the gin-blossomed nose he’d come to think of as Red Parka.

    He knew that just beyond the walls was a view to steal the breath from a Capital City Morlock such as himself, but it did him little good.

    Red Parka shifted on his stool, settling the hunting rifle across his lap into a more comfortable position.

    There was rarely any magic in Mulligan’s job, and here was the epitome of the mundane: He’d often wondered if this was how he might perish, in some dingy hovel at the hand of a man with petty reasons and a terrible need for a shower.

    From beyond the crookedly hung door, in the room that made up the other half of the shack, there came a trio of knocks.

    Smith could hear Blue Parka, the one who’d tazed him, rise to answer the summons.


    “I’ve lost one of my tourists, have you seen an idiot in a hoodie stumbling around out here?”

    Smith knew the woman’s voice, longed, in fact, to hear it say just a few more words, but Red Parka’s arms stiffened at the intrusion, and the gun barrel hovered above his knees.

    It would do no good, Smith knew, to drag Molly into the calamity.

    She’d been the one who’d summoned him to the Arctic Circle. They’d been introduced when he’d had need of a bush pilot on a previous job, and she’d been impressed enough with his work to ask for assistance when the small community of Suinnak had charged her with rum running.

    Her email had been as straight to the point as Blackhall herself.

    I realize chasing bootleggers sounds a bit ridiculous to a fellow who can walk a block and pass three bars and a booze megastore, but these folks generally see limited supplies, and a sudden bump in the market can cause a lot of havoc. I’ve been the only one in and out lately, so they figure I must be the source, and I haven’t been able to spot any amateur moonshiners while waiting for my court date.

    I hate to have to ask – and I think you know it – but I could really use some help.

    In truth, Molly’s face, and his trip north, had floated to mind more than once in his idle hours parked outside cheap motels and heavily-curtained bungalows, and he’d been eager to be of assistance.

    “I haven’t seen him,” answered Blue Parka.

    There was a pause, and Molly lost the majority of the politeness in her voice.

    “I heard he was coming here to visit,” she insisted.

    Red Parka had the stock of his weapon under his arm now, the barrel endangering the ground midway between Mulligan and himself.

    “Nope,” said Blue Parka, “probably best to go back to your plane and wait to see if he shows.”

    The door closed. Smith felt his shoulders relax.

    At least she’d be safe.

    When he’d arrived, a day earlier, it had been an easy enough thing to locate the real origin of the free-flowing liquor. His filing cabinets at home were filled with letters from his ex-police-sergeant father that provided advice along the lines of, “it takes money to catch money,” and he’d known exactly how to begin the search.

    FP416 – Mulligan Smith in Skipping a Beat: a Molly Blackhall ChronicleLocating the most notorious drunk in town had only taken three sets of questions, and, as the PI had told Molly when he’d retrieved his bribe from his travel bag, it wasn’t as if the community was about to be overrun with 18-year-old single malt Talisker scotch.

    She’d grown red faced and angry when he’d handed the cup to a fellow obviously killing himself with such.

    At the first drink, the man had denied knowing anything about locals involved in distilling.

    At the second, both men were chuckling, and Molly joined them in a sullen cup.

    At the third she too was laughing, as Mulligan laid out his usual jokes and admitted, sheep facedly, that he rarely drank.

    At the fourth, the interviewee, still denying he knew anything, did admit it was better booze than the locally made stuff.

    When they’d reduced the bottle by half, the private investigator had found his feet suddenly, thanking his host for his time.

    “Perhaps you could top my glass before you go?” the drunk had asked.

    “Sorry, I need to save some reward for someone who can help,” Smith had replied.

    The tippler’s face went to war with itself for thirty seconds, twisting between resolve and thirst, then the man had stood to point at the shack on the hill.

    Smiths’ victory was quickly forgotten, however, as Molly landed on a decision that seemed to have been hovering at the edge of her mind for a while, and dragged him back to the cabin she occupied when visiting the remote hamlet.

    Two hours later, half-sobered and sweating from exertion, she’d apologized for growing angry over tweaking the old lush’s weakness to dig for an answer.

    “We Blackhalls have always had a temper,” she explained.

    They’d fallen asleep soon after.

    Awaking to her satisfied snoring had given him the chance to creep up the hill and be tazed.

    He’d expected to find a still – instead, seconds before being electrified, he’d discovered just a spout to collect snow and a pot-bellied stove that struck the PI as a fire hazard, especially in an all-wood shanty.

    That’d been half an hour ago, but now there was a hitch in his chest as he realized the distance between them was so close that he could hear her muttering as she followed the thin trail down the hillside.

    “Oh,” she was saying, “I’m-a go back to the goddamn plane…”

    In the next room, Blue Parka returned to murmuring. He’d been at it when Smith had originally arrived, and until this second interruption the chanting had been the only relief from Red Parka’s thick mouth-breathing.

    Smith returned to the impossible task of finding some leverage that might keep him out of a shallow permafrost grave.

    He considered using his increasingly angry bladder as an excuse to attempt to run, but he doubted he’d make it far from Red Parka’s rifle given the barren white slopes that surrounded the hut.

    Blue Parka’s droning stopped, and Mulligan’s bladder doubled its demands.

    He had little interest in finding out what the pair had in mind once done singing for the day.

    It was apparently just another interruption, however.

    “You gotta see this,” called the crooner, “there’s a – I think it’s a wolverine? – out front. Bring the rifle.”

    Red Parka stood and pulled the door shut behind him.

    Through the flimsy barrier Smith heard Red Parka ask, “is it dancing?”

    “Maybe it’s rabid?”

    The slamming of the outside exit cut off any further conversation.

    Breathing heavily, the PI began to thrash in his bonds. The chair went over sideways, but did not break. The zipties dug into his ankles and the flesh of his wrists, but did not give.

    Still, it was shouting and gunshots from the far side of the cabin that brought his flailing to a halt.

    Then the air filled with the scream of a chainsaw.

    As he lay askew on the rough planks, the tip of a high-speed cleaver pushed through the wall and sliced downward in a long diagonal stroke.

    Two more incisions followed, and the splinter-edged triangle fell inward.

    Molly Blackhall said, “so, sometimes you’re out in the woods and some bloody beavers start lodging up on the river you figured you could use to exit. I keep this Mama Jama to clear the runway, as it were.”

    “You shouldn’t have come back,” answered Mulligan, “they’re armed with worse than chainsaws. If that animal hadn’t come along…”

    “Oh, she’s part of the plan too.”

    “You have a pet wolverine?”

    “It’s not a pet, it’s more like a friend,” she replied. “Anyhow, talk less, escape more.”

    She did him the favour of using a knife to remove his bonds.

    Still, the PI could not resist a final peek into the adjoining room to see the product of the seemingly neverending incantations. He thought the man had been simply whistling while he worked, but the only changes he could spot in the plain chamber were the location of the barrel, which was now at the center of the floor, and the nature of what it held.

    Then he was again being pulled along by Molly’s insistent grip, though this time through the ragged hole and down the hill.

    White powder crunched underfoot. The mountain range on the far horizon watched impassively. Behind them echoed more shouts, and more gunshots, and perhaps even a gravel-throated chuckle.

    It was at that moment Mulligan Smith realized he was in love, but he would be left wondering, for a long while afterward, how the Parkas had transformed a barrel of snow melt into wine.

    He would not see the pair again, nor would the people of Suinnak, but the discovery of the supply – and the signed confession they nailed to the Game Warden’s office before they departed – were enough to clear Molly for a brief southward vacation.


    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.

    FC110 – #OpRaleigh

    FC110 - #OpRaleigh

    Hello, and welcome to FlashCast 110.

    Prepare yourself for: Floridian crime, the Holy Grail, Operation Raleigh, personal vampires, and Coffin.

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    Huge thanks to:

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    Audio-dacity of Hope:

  • Check out the new items on the store!
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  • Email Opop about Skinner Co. Ink at opopanax at skinner dot fm!
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    Backroom Plots:

  • FP397 – Coffin: The Hunger for Change
  • Racist Ice Cream
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    Also, many thanks, as always, Retro Jim, of RelicRadio.com for hosting FlashPulp.com and the wiki!

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    If you have comments, questions or suggestions, you can find us at https://www.skinner.fm, or email us text/mp3s to comments@flashpulp.com.

    FlashCast is released under the Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 3.0 Unported License.

    FP393 – Mulligan Smith in Con-tingency

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

    Flash PulpTonight we present Mulligan Smith in Con-tingency

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    This week’s episodes are brought to you by The Creative Audio Dept.’s Dog Days of Podcasting


    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 our PI, Mulligan Smith, finds himself surrounded by cosplayers, comic hawkers, and conjugal criminals.


    Mulligan Smith in Con-tingency

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


    Twenty feet to Mulligan’s left Mitch and Mike, wearing matching blue t-shirts with SECURITY emblazoned across the chest, were hassling Godzilla.

    Smith had met the enforcers the day previous, at which point the PI had sworn he was alone at the con, whatever the closed circuit cameras might show. They’d been nice enough, if a little eager to look hard for a couple of tall accountants working to avoid entrance fees. They’d pressed hard about the massive attendee in the Stay Puft Marshmallow costume, but, in truth, after passing a few stern words to Billy regarding the concept of proportional response, the detective had cut the Canadian loose at the door so that he could get some work done.

    In retrospect it had been a solid decision, especially in light of what Winnipeg had done to the greasy fellow who’d repeatedly demanded the various costumed heroines roaming the floor, “kneel before Zod.”

    It was not the first comic convention Mulligan had haunted, but it was certainly the first he’d be receiving a paid fee for.

    The stack of Italian giallo flicks he was carrying would definitely be coming out of his take-home profit, however.

    Mulligan Smith - The Flash Pulp PodcastFive feet to his right stood Lex Luthor, Superman’s greatest nemesis, with his arm wrapped tightly about the waist of Supergirl. Smith knew the tall blonde woman was the Man of Steel’s cousin, but he still doubted Mr. Kent would be pleased to witness the scene – then again, he reflected, neither would Marcia Addison.

    Though this Lex was but one of many bald-capped Luthors in the crowd, he had the distinguishing feature of being the only pretend psychotic-billionaire married to Marcia, Smith’s client.

    As for Supergirl, she stepped away quickly, a shudder shaking her cape.

    Turning on the black-suited cosplayer, she asked, “the hell!?”

    Addison replied with a lopsided grin and a, “well I am the villain, you know.”

    With one eye searching the show floor, Mulligan broadly shook his head, leaving Lex under the impression that he was being judged. The fact that the hoodie-wearing investigator was holding his phone aloft, apparently taking pictures, simply reinforced the idea.

    Luthor didn’t care.

    “What?” he asked his apparent spectator, “look at her – tell me you weren’t tempted to lift this little skirt…”

    His white-gloved hands flicked at her hem and Smith gave up on his head shaking.

    Sure the storm was already thundering on the horizon, the PI kept his cell’s camera steady and spoke as rapidly as his tongue would allow.

    “Someone emailed Mrs. Addison about your convention schedule and your reputation. She was already considering a divorce, but – well, I doubt you’ll have much travel money once the judge is through with-” and that was all he had time for.

    Though they’d missed the harassment entirely, shortly after Mulligan had spoken the word “schedule” Mitch and Mike had begun to curse, and by the time the judge had come up they’d realized they were too far on the wrong side of the hall to stop the avalanche.

    Billy Winnipeg had had plenty of time to pick up momentum as he’d approached from the balcony overlooking the floor, and the show patrons were quick to part before a man whose black sphere of a costume might be mistaken for a moon.

    “He was the Death Star! The Death Star! Fuuuuuuu-” was all Smith could make out before wind and the sound of howling rage blocked all noise.

    The impact of the tackle was enough to shake the tower of t-shirts on sale behind Luthor, and, though he didn’t know it then, the black eye would easily last him till the opening court date.

    Mulligan could only shrug, unwilling to argue with his friend’s policy on public harassment.

    Besides, wasn’t that a Blood and Black Lace poster two booths down?


    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.

    Coffin’s theme is Quinn’s Song: A New Man, by Kevin MacLeod of http://incompetech.com/

    Freesound.org credits:

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

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

    FP373 – Mulligan Smith in Taken, Part 2 of 3

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

    Flash PulpTonight we present Mulligan Smith in Taken, Part 2 of 3
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    This week’s episodes are brought to you by The Way of the Buffalo


    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, our private investigator, Mulligan Smith, finds himself stretching both his limbs and the truth.


    Mulligan Smith in Taken, Part 2 of 3

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


    Mulligan finally got lucky during his third yoga class.

    The studio was a converted loft apartment overtop a vegan restaurant, with a pass-through kitchen at one end and a bay window, overlooking the pedestrian traffic below, at the other. Though Smith doubted he could afford the habit if he weren’t expensing it, a rainbow of twenty mats were already laid out on the parquet floor as he entered.

    The first two sessions had been conducted by a bearded willow tree named Dakota. Dakota was a nice enough fellow, and he’d done a bit to correct Mulligan’s Dolphin pose, but the PI was quite pleased to find him absent that Sunday afternoon.

    Still, as the room began to fill with the recorded sounds of flutes and chimes, the investigator again felt the guilt of wasted time. Grandmother Woodward, his client, certainly had the cash to spare – she’d made that clear as they sat through tea in her Victorian style garden – but it frustrated the PI that he couldn’t even claim to be learning anything useful.

    Mulligan Smith in Taken, Part 2 of 3Years of sitting in the less-than-ergonomic front seat of the Tercel while waiting out errant spouses and insurance frauds had already made Smith a well-practiced pupil. It was not uncommon, in the fifth of a probable ten hour watch, for Mulligan to simply step out of his vehicle and Downward Dog right there on the pavement.

    The remorse disappeared at the sight of Victoria Woodward.

    She was wearing black leggings and a spaghetti strap top that did nothing to hide the light blue stone of her belly-button piercing.

    “Namaste,” she told the class as she took her position at its head.

    Suddenly Mulligan’s Dolphin slipped again, and his back refused to stay straight during his Plow. Not so badly that he embarrassed himself, of course, but certainly enough to draw Victoria’s eye.

    Finally, after a serene hour of stretching, the session came to a close.

    Smiling, Smith walked to the ornate rack of wooden coat hangers, pulled his sweater from its resting place, then approached his newly returned teacher.

    “You’ve been away?” he asked.

    Briefly biting her lower lip, his client’s daughter – the mother of the supposedly missing toddler, Addison Woodward – replied, “yeah?”

    It was hard to remain nervous, however, under the glare of Mulligan’s practiced grin.

    “Thanks for your help today,” he continued, “I’d heard you were really good but you haven’t been around the last couple of times I’ve been in.”

    “Oh! Yeah, I was at a spa – it was fantastic, just a few days in the country with the trees and the birds and nothing to worry about, you know?”

    Mulligan nodded and did his best to ignore the way her tone seemed to be trying to convince him of the truth of her words, but, before he could respond, she changed the subject.

    “You said someone recommended me? Who?”

    Smith’s hunch had come to him the previous evening, as he’d picked apart a Denny’s club sandwich. He’d spread three photos of the yoga instructor on the booth’s tabletop, alongside a column of website printouts. The photos were from the first day of his investigation, after which Victoria had immediately disappeared.

    Though they’d provided no hint as to her location, her social media profiles had made it clear that she considered her yoga class as more than a job, so he’d known where to wait for her return.

    His search had also uncovered something he found considerably more troubling, however.

    It had started with postings about GMO wheat crammed between videos demonstrating proper pose posture, but, the further the detective scrolled, the deeper the well grew. Items began to crop up in her feed about black site prisons, about the dangers of vaccines, about the fascism of the American state.

    He’d had to back away from his keyboard when, two status updates below a photo of baby Addison, he’d stumbled across a diatribe written by Victoria that began, “The conmen that make up the scientific community…” and had continued on for twelve more paragraphs.

    Was it pleasant? No, but plenty of people were a parent and unpleasant at the same time.

    So where was the child? Probably with a babysitter, as the mother had always claimed.

    Yet, later, as he’d drained his milkshake and buried the photos beneath his mute father’s notes from the press conference – Smith always filed his observations, just in case – his half-formed suspicion had grown into a no-you’re-just-being-paranoid hypothesis.

    Now, with a conscious effort to keep his friendly smirk in place, Mulligan filled his nose with the thick smell of freshly lit incense and played his hunch.

    “Posey Cotton,” he answered.

    The senior Smith had called in some favours still owed to the former police sergeant, but no one in the beehive of activity surrounding the Cotton baby’s case could draw any connections between Victoria and the missing child’s mother.

    Mulligan caught the hesitation in the yogi’s response, and noted the briefest tug at her left cheek.

    Suddenly he was sure he wasn’t wasting Grandma’s time at all.

    “Poor Posey,” replied Victoria, “that whole thing is just so sad.”

    “I know, right?” answered Mulligan as he tugged at his sweater’s zipper. “Anyhow – gotta see a sorcerer about my chakras and all that.”

    Smith’s feet carried him to the stairwell at such a pace that he nearly forgot to call out a “namaste” as he departed.

    He had an appointment to make.


    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.

    True Crime Tuesday: Cost? No Man Can Say. Edition

    Amazing Stories - Blitzkrieg in the Past - Dinosaurs & Nazis Pulp Cover

    Everyone involved in today’s True Crime Tuesday was chasing something – but at what cost? All sought something, and some, like Jared Ehlers, (as the HuffPo reports,) simply even took it.

    The U.S. attorney’s office in Utah announced Wednesday that a grand jury returned the indictment against 35-year-old Jared Ehlers of Moab. He is facing up to 20 years in prison on the most serious of four counts.

    Twenty years is serious business – who or what do you love enough to risk twenty years in prison for?

    Did you say dinosaurs? Jared did.

    Authorities in southeast Utah say [a] three-toed ancient track was pried last month from the sandstone on the Hell’s Revenge Trail in the Sand Flats Recreation Area near Moab.


    Utah Bureau of Land Management District paleontologist Rebecca Hunt-Foster says the dinosaur tracks are 190 million years old. She says they are one-of-a-kind tracks that don’t have a price.

    Still no word on if any amber or mosquitoes were involved, nor if Mr. Ehlers lead police on a high speed raptor-back chase.
    Doc Savage 1933 - Dinosaur Pulp Cover
    Jules Bahler, however, needed money but wanted fame – as mlive.com reports:

    Investigators with the FBI have sworn out a complaint against Jules Bahler, charging him with single counts of bank robbery and using and carrying a firearm during and in relation to a crime of violence. The document alleges Bahler on the afternoon of Wednesday, March 5, entered the Chemical Bank branch at 1513 Columbus Ave. in Bay City, brandished a submachine gun and fled with about $7,000.

    The complaint says Bahler committed two similar crimes in Pontiac, robbing a Genisys Credit Union of $4,300 on Feb. 26 and a Bank of America branch of $4,000 on March 4.

    Another serious bit of business. How did they bust him? Well, I suppose I’ve already given you the hint that he wanted fame, so, did he leave some Riddler-esque clue? Did he call in a cryptic tip to the Chief of Police? Did he taunt the law with letters to the media?


    On Thursday, March 6, investigators learned that Bahler’s Facebook page — where he identifies himself as “King Romeo” — contained images of him brandishing a submachine gun. Investigators believed Bahler’s face matched that of the robber captured by bank surveillance cameras, the complaint states.

    The Facebook page indicates that on March 5, Bahler posted a caption with the photos that reads, “Bought my first house And chopper today … lifes great.”

    Jules BahlerA surveillance photo of the suspected robber from the Bay City Chemical Bank branch on Columbus Avenue. Police say the man is Jules Bahler and have charged him in federal court.
    The page features a photograph of a home in Pontiac, which the FBI and Oakland County Sheriff’s deputies began staking out on Friday, March 7.


    Officers initiated a traffic stop and arrested Bahler. They found a submachine gun in a duffle bag in the car, the complaint states.

    Bahler confessed to his involvement in all three robberies and gave authorities consent to search his new home[.]

    Famouse Fantastic Mysteries Pulp Cover
    Needs, however, can get rather complex. For example, as ABC news reports, the needs of Barbara Bienvenue and her boyfriend, Paul, might seem rather tricky – after all, they were expecting quints:

    Marie-Pier Gagnon, a reporter for Le Canada Français, a local French-language newspaper that covers Saint-Jean-sur-Richelieu, Quebec, reported on Jan. 23 that the couple was expecting quadruplets. They would be named Alexander, Sebastian, Charles and Rosalie, and they would be born via Cesarean section on Feb. 22 at the CHU Sainte-Justine Hospital in Montreal. Photos of a colorful room with wall-to-wall cribs accompanied the article.

    Gagnon wrote that the news spurred a movement on social networks to help the couple, and donations poured in.

    So – let’s take a moment and talk about cost. For example, knowing this is a TCT, and knowing I’ve just introduced you to a set of quints, are you starting to wonder what cost this piece is going to take on your heart?

    I can assure you that no babies were hurt in the making of this post.

    No babies at all.

    It was only when Barbara Bienvenue, 37, went to the hospital to deliver the babies this month that doctors pulled her boyfriend aside to tell him she wasn’t pregnant and never had been, according to CTV, a Canadian news station.

    “I lost everything, it was my whole life,” her boyfriend Paul Servat told the Toronto Sun, adding that Bienvenue told him she was expecting twins, then triplets, then quadruplets, then quintuplets. He said her belly grew, and she experienced morning sickness and lactation.

    How badly are you seeking something to believe an ever increasing count of children?

    How badly do you need to be seeking something to fake lactation or trick your body into doing so?

    Everybody's Combined with Romance - DANGER pulp cover

    True Crime Tuesday: Bite Outta Crime Edition

    Spicy Mystery Stories, June 1936 - angry cat and angry woman pulp cover - The Cat Tastes Blood
    Given my terrible flu I thought it best to inoculate us all with a triple-shot of true crime.

    First the bad news, then the good news, then the best news:

    We begin in the familial home of Yevgeniy Bolshakov, 26, as reported on by the SF Gate.

    Bolshakov lives in an apartment with his parents, and when he came home from an outing Saturday, he asked about the cat, which had recently undergone surgery.

    There’s no mention of why the cat was in for surgery, but, given my foreknowledge of the conclusion of this article, I might suppose it was recuperating from broken ribs after Yevgeniy hugged it too tightly.

    That’s as far as I’d be willing to guess though.

    His parents told Bolshakov that the cat was recuperating and that he couldn’t see the pet, said District Attorney Steve Wagstaffe.

    His parents seem to agree.

    By the way, do you feel a bit like The Walking Dead is influencing contemporary criminal practices? It’s a subtle shift, but I really think it’s there.

    Why do I ask?

    Oh, nothing.

    Without warning, Bolshakov punched his 64-year-old father repeatedly in the head, Wagstaffe said. Then he “viciously” bit his father on the arm, ripping out a chunk of flesh, the prosecutor said. Bolshakov also allegedly bit his father twice on the elbow and once on the chin.

    When his mother tried to intervene, Bolshakov punched her in the head and bit her on the hand, Wagstaffe said.

    Better Homes and Gardens, November 1926 - cats with flowers pulp cover
    In better news, the Star Tribune reports a Rochester sporting goods store Hooked on Fishing, was recently broken into…

    But the intruder appeared to have left in a hurry, without stealing anything — not tackle nor cash that had been left in “a very visible spot,” Sgt. Tom Claymon said.

    My first assumption, of course, would be that a well armed proprietor made for a short attempt at robbery – but no, it wasn’t firearms that saved the day: It was a robot – a robot fish.

    The novelty bass, which had been hung near the door and would start singing “Take Me to the River” whenever someone entered the shop, was found on the floor after the intruder knocked it down as part of breaking the door to get in, according to the Olmsted County Sheriff’s Office.


    [The shop] showed evidence that a burglar [was] scared off by [the] motion-activated, singing bass, authorities said.

    At least someone, somewhere, now feels their novelty Christmas purchase was justified.
    Fantastic Adventures - Slaves of the Fish Men
    Easily my favourite bit of true crime news this week, however, comes from the Sun Times.

    Police said Bacon approached his victim Saturday in the 3000 block of North Long. He repeatedly demanded she give him the keys to her car, authorities said.

    Any man named Andre Bacon should be leading a better life. A man named Andre Bacon should be running a hipster cooking blog or leading a Wednesday evening crime show I wouldn’t watch – whatever the case, he certainly shouldn’t be badly attempting to carjack people.

    Now Bacon, 21, of 113th and Harvard in Chicago, is charged with attempted vehicular hijacking and theft. Cook County Judge Maria Kuriakos Ciesil ordered Bacon held Sunday in lieu of $75,000 bail.

    Especially not people as badass as our unnamed victim.

    When Andre Bacon repeatedly demanded [the] woman give him the keys […] she did so.


    She handed them over, police said, then closed the garage door, ran away and called police.

    Officers later met the victim, and she opened the garage door for them. Inside they allegedly found the car, with Bacon in the driver’s seat, and the keys in the ignition.

    The Girl in the Death Seat - pulp cover