Part 1 of 1
Read the full text, as well as the show notes, at http://flashpulp.com
Tonight we hear a two-fisted tale of superheroics and mundane errors.
The Skinner Co. Network
FPSE16 - The Wagging Tongue
Some days grew me, my hours are slumberless Dear is the shadows I live with I'm underless Little wife flowers will never awaken you Not where the brach ultra-saul is taking you Angels have no fire of ever returning you Or they may angry if I so don't join in you Ooh, Sunday Welcome to Flashpulp Special Episode 16 This evening we present The Wagging Tongue Part 1 of 1 This week's episodes are brought to you By Nutty Bites Wake up, go to work Work, come home, eat dinner Rot your brain out, go to bed Lather, rinse, repeat Are you tired of an old humdrum life? Tired of things that just weigh you down and depress you? Wouldn't you rather just focus on things that are awesome? Tune into Nutty Bites, find out what's awesome. NuttyBites, nimlas.org/blog Flashpulp 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 hear a two-fisted tale of super-heroics and mundane errors The Wagging Tongue Written by J.R.D. Skinner Art and narration by Opopidax An audio produced by Jessica Nett Death is no dream for a death I'm caressing you With the strength of my soul I'll be the last to sing you Good Sunday The floor of Little Texas was a wash in overturned chairs, broken novelty stains, and blood Most of the scarlet could be attributed to the two broken-handed meth addicts who decided to rob the downtown bar and grill without shoes They'd made quite a mess during the threatening phase of their operation They saw down-shot guns acting as handy clubs to scatter the taproom's signature glasses But neither had considered that they might have to undertake a hasty retreat through the field of debris, at least, until the celestial had appeared Striding through the swinging double doors as if she had not seconds previously been Dealing with a terrorist threat in Karachi, the woman ignored both gunmen as she scanned the room with her wide-spectrum vision It was only once she spotted Clinton Webb that she raised her ivory gauntlets Despite their best efforts to sprint through a side exit, the would-be bandits had found their weapons removed with such force that their malnourished fists shattered under their effort to retain them A follow-up thrust of the celestial's gravity-based powers had left the pair unconscious and the heroin sneering at Webb Now as she moved to depart, the establishment's cook shouted, "Thank you!" The dishwasher, a portly alcoholic who'd seen five hold-ups in his time, wept "Praise Jesus and you, celestial!" Clint, standing close enough to a blonde patron in a black pencil skirt and broad-shoulder jacket to be heard, simply muttered, "Go fuck yourself." "You know her?" asked the stranger, with one well-groomed brow raised. "Yeah," replied the forty-year-old bartender. "The first time I was saved by the celestial, I was eighteen and on a date." She steps from her novoportal thing and just stares at me the whole time she's chastising the mugger. Hell, I only had twenty bucks, I almost would have rather you just took it. The woman on the stool had been sharp enough to keep her hand on her drink as the hooligans had entered and her pint of stellar twal was one of the few to survive the affair. She sipped on it as she asked, "She doesn't like you?" "Hmph, you could say that. The last twenty years, any time she makes a newspaper cover, and when doesn't she, I get a copy of it, hand delivered to my door." I went backpacking in Europe decades ago, you know, during the shadow uprising, and it didn't matter how filthy of a back alley hostile I stayed in. The capital city daily was always waiting for me. At one point, when I was maybe thirty-three, thirty-four, I got lost while camping in Ontario with some friends. I got separated and wandered for a few hours before falling and getting my leg wedged between two stones. I did my best to yell for help, but I eventually passed out from the pain. When I come to the next morning, there was a full-color Sunday edition, waiting beside me, talking about the time she'd punched the creepy and evil across a three-mile stretch of the city and directly into a jail cell. The worst part? She didn't actually come to get me to lunch. She waited till some small town news people had arrived at the park entrance, then she carried me to safety and lectured me for fifteen minutes in front of the camera. The thing is, I've only actually caught her delivering it once. For years I wasn't even sure she was the one doing it. I thought maybe she had some sort of crew of cronies doing her dirty work, but it's her all right. Remember the times she fought comment on oblivion to a standstill on the roof of Richard's building? Seven straight hours of florida time punching? The papers had already laid out two possible prints for the outcome, and they hid go as soon as she finally knocked him down. "I remember the headline," said the one woman audience. Celestial risks everything to save city. Clint nodded. I bet she had to steal an issue from the printing company's loading bay to get it that early. I don't watch the news though, so I didn't know what was going on. I was just up earlier than normal because of my neighbor's yappy shitsu, and happened to be headed into the hall when she arrived. Her costume was shredded, and her mask was missing entirely. She howed out the paper, her hand shaking just slightly, then dropped it, straight arm. So soaked in her blood that I couldn't have read the article if I'd wanted to. The woman shook her head. I knew a thing or two about the Celestials' enemies. We're talking about international dictators and ninja assassins, and I've never seen her bothered over any of it. Whatever you did to piss her off must have been pretty hideous. The police had not arrived, nor had the meth heads awoken. The canned hoggy-tongued music had returned to its normal levels, and the cook was busy writing chairs. Taking it all in, then eyeing up the figure on the stool, Clint said, "It happened when we were kids." "Wait, are you going to tell me her origin story?" "Origins story?" "Nah." Besides, everyone knows that young Selma Cygnus was bitten by a radioactive alien that turned her into a mighty force for justice that is the Celestial. It's right in her reality shows intro. This was years before that. We were both maybe twelve. She was just weird Selma from next door back then. Me and a pal of mine were messing around in my backyard, shooting cans with my pellet gun, and she hops the little fence between our places and starts giving me guff about how dangerous the thing is. We didn't like each other, even then, but I think she had a bit of a crush on Ralph. Anyhow, her dog is there, old brute by the name of Horace. And when I start yelling her to get back on her own place, it hops up on the fence with its front paws and starts burking at me. It was stupid, and I believe, somehow, that the gun could really do any damage without thinking I shot the mud. Of course, the only thing I could see on the bloody thing was its head, so that's where I hid it. We all just stood there, watching it pant, and drained away into the gravel of a driveway. There was a lingering silence that was eventually replaced with the arrival of a patrol car's swelling sirens. Clint expected the rolled bundle the following day, but was surprised to discover that the headline was largely unrelated to the little Texas incident. Instead, the bold print read, "Meet the man who shot the Celestials dog." He did not recognize the name of Madeline Lawrence, the reporter credited in the byline, but he knew she must have been the friendly ear of the bar. It would be years before he was no longer recognized on the street as a canine assassin, but it was, at least, the final time his constant savior delivered the news. FlashPulp is presented by flashpulp.com and is released under the Creative Commons attribution non-commercial 3.0 unported license. Fast and audio commentaries can be sent to comments@flashpulp.com, but be aware that they may appear in a future flashcast. We'd also like to thank the Free Sound Project, found at freesound.org. For a full listing of effects used during the show, as well as credits for the users who provided them, check this episode's notes at flashpulp.com. And thanks to you for listening. If you enjoyed the show, please tell your friends. [MUSIC PLAYING] (upbeat music)