Part 1 of 1
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Tonight, private investigator Mulligan Smith finds himself listening to a tale of prison romance.
The Skinner Co. Network
FP276 – Mulligan Smith and The Jailhouse Lover, Part 1 of 1
Some days, gloomy, my hours are slumberless Dearest, the shadows I live with I'm underless Little white flowers will never awaken you Not where the bright culture's all I'm taking you Angels have no fire of ever turning you Would they be angry if I so'd of joined in you Ooh, Sunday Welcome to Flashpope, Episode 276 This evening we present Mulligan Smith and The Jailhouse Lover, Part 1 of 1 This week's episodes are brought to you by Dead Kitchen Radio Hi, I'm Keith Ariadakendo, international best-selling and award-winning author of over 40 novels as well as comic books, short stories, novellas, and more Also an editor, currently hiring out through creditorial, musician, currently percussionist for the boogie nights, and a whole lot more Hear me talk about my writing and my life and also do readings for my work On my twice monthly podcast, Dead Kitchen Radio, part of the Chronic Rift Network For more information, go to chronicriff.com or to deadkitchenradio.mivio.com Flashpopes 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, private investigator Mulligan Smith finds himself listening to a tale of prison romance Mulligan Smith and The Jailhouse Lover Written by J.R.D. Skinner, art and narration by Opoponax, an audio produced by Jessica Met Powell Windows? Fuck Powell Windows? Walmart, Mike was saying. The Mercedes-Benz, alongside the Tressell, pulled away from the stoplight Mulligan had offered the old man ride home after discovering him waiting out the downtown bus in a plexiglass shelter, but he hadn't expected much in the way of a conversation The greeter asked, "You know those flicks with some a-hole with the mustache finds himself facing off against twenty guys? And he just stands behind his jalopy and blasts them all?" "Yeah, I knew this idiot, Dustin Cameron, who actually tried it." "It was on parole, but he couldn't resist living big." Drove around in a boat of a Cadillac. "First car I ever rode him with Powell Windows." "Only because he bought me lunch, you understand. I was done with the life by then." Mike paused, drumming his fingers on the passenger side door's armrest. A few weeks later he rolls on a couple of hard cases who were bothering his employers. Stops his road yacht in the middle of the street, stands up from the driver's seat and levels a Colt 45. Blam, blam, blam. I'm guessing that he was coped out of his mind, but they didn't mention it in the papers. Anyhow, one of the pair drops, but the other's quick, and he gets his own pea shooter in play. The two of them keep doing the squint and squeeze for a few more seconds until they're both clicking at each other. Then, full of adrenaline, the idiot gets back in the caddy and starts to drive away. Apparently his windshield had several holes in it. His goddamn engine must look like a sieve. A block on him realized that his brakes were pooched and he couldn't stop at the light. A FedEx truck moving through the cross traffic hit him in the trunk though, spun the car around and made a stall, but the impact was also enough to spark a fire. Some pedestrians weren't seeing what he'd been running from came pounding the pavement towards him, looking to pull him clear before it was too late, but he jerked out of his shock suddenly, and his first instinct was to bring his big pistol up. Well, of course everyone stepped the fuck back. He panicked through the piece in the rear seat and started yelling for help. At that point though, no one was really excited about giving it a second goal. People could see him slamming at the power windows if they were as dead as the rest of the car. He tried kicking at the glass, but his sneakers kept bouncing. By the time he thought to look for the cold, the Cadillac was so full of smoke he probably couldn't see where he dropped it. He cooked before he found it. Mulligan whistled. There was a note of emotion in his passengers telling that seemed heavier than the story. One more tale of violence in the hundred he'd heard previously. So rather than trample a carefully prepared runway, the private investigator otherwise maintained his silence. After a moment, Mike cleared us throat. "It's funny. I'm prison people hustle hard for just a bit of sugar," he said. "That's why I met Dostin." "Who's this guy? Real prison house Cyrano, you know? Used to write letters for him." "Huh. Really. The guy did it for a lot of folks. Some illiterate liquor store holder man would run off to him in the yard and say, "Hey, it's me and my ladies third anniversary. Can I get a poem?" The writer asked a few questions. "You know, get a feel for what their relationship was like, and they need to wander off and scroll a little something." Then exchanged, Cyrano would scroll a couple of packages of Twinkies from the canteen, and kept him fat throughout the cold months. "Well, he was no Shakespeare. A lot of those guys barely knew how to read." Dostin and him got him pretty good. Came to the point where Cameron would just bring his words from home over to Cyrano's bunk to have him read, and the ghostwriter would spit something out and collect his sweets. Same years, after a few months, the screw before us for the girl. Can't blame him, really. He had no one writing him. She was always hella enthusiastic about his messages. I was always under the impression that maybe it was as close to a romance as Dostin ever gave her, even if it was a sham. That is a limit to what you can say, you know? What the let pass through the mail. But things got as hard as they could under the warden's watchful letter opener. Maybe that's why Cameron stopped wanting to write his offer, and waited before swinging by Cyrano's bunk. Correspondence and Twinkies slowed to a trickle. Now, Dostin was to be in for twenty. It didn't happen that way. He did just over six before he was released to go down in his blaze of glory. But as far as we knew, he was in for a full shift. Cyrano, however, was short, and he couldn't shut the woman from his mind, even if he'd only seen her in a grainy picture taped to Dostin's wall. Two months before he was to be pushed out the gate, Cameron started a major ruckus in the yard, got himself shoved in the hole for a little thinking time. He was still there when the level boy went through the door. My understanding is that, while Cyrano wasn't proud of it, he looked in on Mrs. Cameron not long after. I guess he'd written her address out enough times to have it memorized. It was a small apartment on the west side of the city. Carter exiting the door, and doled up to the hill and glone like a classy pinup. She was pulling a gentler along behind her, and both of them were grinning as if they were kids sneaking out from under the bleachers. Dostin had a temper, so I suppose she can't be blamed for not being in a hurry to piss him off by delivering the news that they were done. She did, theoretically, have a couple of decades. Well Cyrano just apologized and said he meant to stop the floor above. Said he must have hit the wrong button and yellivated. Can you believe that? Ha ha ha. And he ran like a kid dog. Haven't seen him in guayuol, actually. Years of practice had guided the pacing of Mike's telling, and as he finished, Mulligan was nosing his ancient tercel into the parking lot of the ex-con's residents. "Wuayoyoyoy," asked the man, still wearing his blue work smock. Smith smiled. Nothing, as always. Though, honestly, I now have a terrible hankering for a twinkie. Mike scowled, but found he couldn't hold it, and was forced to shift to a red cheek grin. "Come on inside," said. "I happen to have a few on the fridge." 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 Skinner at 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. You