Part 1 of 1
Read the full text, as well as the show notes, at http://flashpulp.com
Tonight, in a moment away from the heavier content of recent releases, we meet a suspicious man with a foul temper, his wife, and the house they live in.
The Skinner Co. Network
FP303 - Break, Part 1 of 1
Some days, gloomy, my hours are slumberless. Dear, is the shadows I live with by nonetheless. Little white flowers will never awaken. Not where the bright culture solace taken you. Angels have no fire ever turning you. Or they'll be angry if I so don't join in you. Welcome to Flashpulp 303. This evening we present Break, part one of one. This week's episodes are brought to you by the Dextercast. On the Dextercast, we do a rewatch of the Showtime series Dexter. There are four hosts, two of us Bob and Rachel have seen Dexter before. The other two, Thena and Janice, are watching for the first time. This format is called an introcast. So join us on the Dextercast as we follow the adventures of America's favorite serial killer, Dexter Morgan. [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, in a moment away from the heavier content of recent releases, we meet a suspicious man with a foul temper, his wife, and the house they live in. Break, written by J.R.D. Skinner, art and narration by Pope and Aynx, and audio produced by Jessica Min. [Music] Dominic Savage had never trusted Godfrey, his home's master control system. "I know you're trying to kill me, bastard," Savage was muttering. The heat in the artist's backroom studio had suddenly spiked mid-brush stroke, and Dominic had been left with no choice but to interface directly with the control panel in the nearby hall. "You son of a bitch, work properly," he shouted at the beige rectangle. "What seems to be the trouble, sir?" asked Godfrey. "The studio is about to burst into flames." "Studio?" "Jesus," Dominic glanced at the chart mirror pinned above the panel, seeking the representation of a sanctuary. "I mean bedroom three." "Oh, my apologies. Would you like me to look into it, sir?" "No, I just thought it'd been too long since we chatted." "Sorry, sir?" "Yes, look into it." "Apologies, but it might be worth mentioning that you did instruct me specifically to avoid bedroom three." "Yes, I do note that the temperature was seven degrees above house average." "You should find it much more comfortable now, however." Upon returning to his brushes, Dominic did. He wasn't happy about it, though. The 50s-themed diner in which Mira and Dominic celebrated their 12th anniversary had drifted as far from its original style as they had. A once-pitch-perfect recreation, the place had steadily deteriorated into a greasy spoon that happened to have waitresses and pink uniforms and a jukebox. It had been the site of their first date, however, and they'd made at least a quick visit for every major milestone since. Besides, there was no risk of an embarrassing encounter with friends. The place didn't even have a wine menu. It had been Mira's turn to be reluctant to head into the February chill. "You wanna split a Sunday with me?" Dominic was asking. "It's winter," replied Mira. The artist smiled. "The ice cream is the only thing that hasn't gotten worse." His wife looked up from her untouched onion rings. "It's too cold," Dominic raised a brow. "It's a heated restaurant. You're gonna get into a heated car, then we're going to return to a heated house." "If you want the goddamn ice cream, eat it yourself. I don't want any." Dominic did, in silence. The ride home was better, though an intermission at a favored bar had helped grease the wheels. "Hey, I'm sorry," Mira had opened. "This project is killing me. Nelson is constantly on my ass about it, but he doesn't seem to get that debugging is... debugging. I can't just wave a wand and have everything work, and no one else is gonna buy a box full of nothing. Two more weeks, tops, and I'll be so much better, I promise." "Are you still gonna be able to make the gallery thing in a week?" As Dominic, as he slid his hand into hers. "Of course. Are you still gonna make the whole naked in my bed thing a half an hour?" Mira's lips finally twitched into a grin. "Of course." In a surprise turn that also happened to Mira their first date, they lost five minutes to needy groping once parked. Reason returned, though, once Mira was topless and complaining about the cold. Before her husband might argue, she told him to collect the Pinot from the trunk and meet her inside. As she exited, lights came on in the house beyond, and Dominic could just make out the grating coup that God free used when she was about. One responsibility led to another, knowing that he was unlikely to be in the mood to move the recycling to the curb after going inside, he set the bottle on the wooden step that led to the interior, and hefted the first of the glass-filled blue bins. It was as he was returning from depositing the second that the heavy rolling door descended rapidly in front of him, coming so close to an impact that his leading shoe, the right, was briefly pinned beneath the plastic weather strip. Even as his toes made their escape, the entrance retracted. "My apologies, sir," said Godfrey. "It appears there was an unexpected closing." The open air of the garage lent the digital voice an uncomfortable air of omniscience. Dominic paused briefly, then crossed the threshold, moving quickly to manually turn off the lights. In moments, the incident was forgotten. Later, lying in a room that was dark beyond the glare of the alarm clock and Godfrey's blinking red light in the corner, Dominic's mind came back to the machine running the house. What hit it made of their performance? They hadn't flipped the sensors to privacy mode during their frenzy, though sometimes he couldn't help but doing so. He hated the way the thing talked to his wife, even if it was innocently programmed to do so. An unexpected thought came to his near slumber. Was the system's recent erratic behavior perhaps due to resentment? Even at three in the morning, ascribing jealousy to a machine seemed a stupid idea, and, with sleep's rapid approach, his suspicions were soon lost. Dominic's work was well known, and well paid for. It had been the source of funding for, amongst other things, Godfrey. But the New York show was set to launch his abstract landscapes and nudes into the realm of legend. It was also launching his blood pressure. "I had better tools than kindergarten," he told no one, before snapping his fifteen-dollar brush. It was a solid construction, but his anger had had the afternoon to build. "Shall I start the hot tub for you, sir?" asked Godfrey. The high-end jacuzzi had been a constant in the painter's life since the arrival of exhibit-related anxiety. "Fine," Dominic replied. His tone was rough, but his mind was already on the open pino. He hadn't noticed how low the room's temperature had dropped, until he stepped outside, and there seemed to be little difference between interior and exterior. With a glass in one hand, and a bottle in the other, he hustled to the roiling waters, pausing only long enough to dip a probing foot before taking a seat. Knowing Nero would be late arriving home, he was in little rush, and an hour later, the wine, and his late night-the-evening previous, had taken their toll. Dominic was asleep for half an hour, when the motor that operated the tub's heavy cover, word to life, and it was only the sudden hum that allowed him warning enough to duck his head beneath the approaching strangling. "Damn it, Godfrey," he shouted. The water level began to rise, as did the heat. The jets roared to life. Dominic found a breath hard to come by, and chlorinated spray dug into his eyes. His pounding did a little good. He knew it was the end when Mira's voice spoke to him from the recess speakers. Hi, Dominic. This is a recording to let you know I hate you, and have for years you can clean the sun of a bitch. I'm glad an artist is worth more dead. Oh, also, I'm fucking Nelson. I shouldn't gloat. You have no idea how long it took me to get all of this programmed. Oh well, as I used to say on Mission Impossible, this recording was self-destruct in five seconds. But you'll be dead by then. Dominic pressed his lips to the unyielding edge of the seal and began to cry. He'd nearly blacked out when Godfrey returned. The machine's tone was apologetic. Error in audio deletion library line 301, entering debug mode. That is to say, I'm afraid I'll have to empty the pool soon. Relief doubled his tears. Instead of a supposed drunk drowning victim, he would go on to be the artist famously nearly murdered by his wife, a week before a show. It did little for his blood pressure, but Godfrey remained close at hand to help. FlashPulp is presented by FlashPulp.com and is released under the Canadian Creative Commons attribution non-commercial 2.5 license. Text and audio commentaries can be sent to scare@skinner.fm or the voicemail line at 206-338-2792. 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, please check this episode's notes at flashpulp.com. And thanks to you for listening. If you enjoyed the show, please tell your friends. [Music]