Part 1 of 1
Read the full text, as well as the show notes, at http://flashpulp.com
A scene of anger and advice starring everyone’s favourite private investigator, Mulligan Smith.
The Skinner Co. Network
FP310 - Mulligan Smith in White Hot Rage, Part 1 of 1
Some days, gloomy, my hours are so lumbolous. Dear is the shadows I live with I'm lumbolous. Little wife flowers will never awaken you. Not where the brachultur's all I'm taking you. Angels have no fire of ever returning you. Or they'll be angry if I so don't join in you. Welcome to Flashpulp, episode 310. This evening we present Mulligan Smith in White Hot Rage, part one of one. This week's episodes are brought to you by The Flash Mob. The mob was at the board meeting, were you? If you'd like to join us at the table, head to facebook.com/groups/theflashmobsters or join us at theflashmob.nig.com. ♪ Ever my week, ever know that I'm glad to go. ♪ ♪ Death is no dream for, and death I'm glressing you. ♪ ♪ With the strength of my soul, they'll be the last to sing you. ♪ ♪ Glue me Sunday. ♪ [instrumental music] 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, due to the pressing business of the SkinnerCo's Saturday Night Board meeting, we are pre-empting our expected ruby tail to present this scene of anger and advice starring everyone's favorite private investigator Mulligan Smith. Our zombie-slaying heroine will return Wednesday, but today, please enjoy Mulligan Smith in White Hot Rage, written by J.R.D. Skinner, art and narration by Opopidax, audio produced by J.S. Kemet. ♪ Listen, sad Mulligan. Anger is an important natural response. I know there's a lot of talk about how it's a negative emotion, that it leads to the darkside of the force and all that, but sometimes, White Hot Fury is all you have. Too, out of anyone should know that. Beneath a stuffed and mounted northern pike, Billy Winnipeg's cliff-like shoulders heaved and indifference. "It's like my hoodie," continued the detective. It represents a direct line back to the kid-sized sweater mom gave me when I was 12. "You can't just let someone steal that kind of heritage from you," Winnipeg looked away from the dimming embers in the cast-iron stove. At the best of moments, the shack would have still been too small for the mammoth man's comfort, but now, as the last of their heat drained away, it only seemed to shrink. "I was with you when you bought that thing," he said. "You got it, like, two years ago." "Yeah, but I was wearing the hoodie from a generation back at the time, and I was wearing its granddad the time previous." "Huh." The pair fell into silence as the private investigator gathered his thoughts. "The fire's out," he finally said. "If you don't get angry, you're gonna get dead. Understand?" Billy squinted, as if he were attempting to, but he still had to reply with a no. "What I'm saying is, your mom's lasagna tastes like a cat vomited into its litter-box, and she smothered the whole thing in cheese before popping it in the oven." Winnipeg's brow creased, but he persisted in refusing to look at his animated friend. "Come on, isn't this bad enough?" As he spoke, his hand remained firmly on the copy of Rod and Real Monthly, that acted as his lone protection against the rapidly cooling air. Mulligan replied, "Bad enough? You know what? I'm willing to bet that Collins didn't just steal our clothes at gunpoint. This is a story whom I want to tell, but it's not worth bragging about yet. Yeah, I'll bet he's turned back to your place. It's only a few hours. No, another fifteen or twenty minutes, he'll be sweet-talking your mom. Won't be midnight before he has or tied to the bed-post and moaning his name. By tomorrow she'll be so shattered by your death he'll likely end up your posthumous father-in-law." "Oh, and meathead posthumous means after you're dead." The giant bellowed at this verbal slap, his modesty and melancholy forgotten, and Smith barely made it to the fishing-huts splintered door before the mountain rose and gave chase. The lake shore was a mile off, but they covered the distance in eight minutes. It was witnessed by just one man, Gregory Thompson, and he would speak of the pair of screaming naked man on every rare occasion that he drank till the day he died. Three hours later Mulligan pulled on his black sweater, zipping its familiar lines, felt as if he was stepping into a warm home. Then it was Collins' turn to run. Flashpulp is presented by flashpulp.com and is released under the Creative Commons attribution non-commercial 3.0 unported license. Text 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. (upbeat music)