Tonight we offer up a brief interlude with our urban shaman’s tipsy companion, Bunny Davis, as written by The Mob’s own Time Traveller.
The Skinner Co. Network
FPGE9 - Supply Run: a Bunny Davis Tale, by Rich Jefferson
(upbeat music) ♪ I'm tirelessly seeks through the ages for fictions ♪ ♪ But as these rich the time travel over ♪ (dramatic music) (dramatic music) - Welcome to Flashpulp, guest episode nine. This evening we present, Supply Run, a Bunny Davis tale by Rich Jefferson. This episode is brought to you by the Flash mob. The friends you always wished you knew you never had, but better, find them at n.fb.me/flashmobsters. (piano music) Flashpulp is an experiment in broadcasting fresh pulp stories in the modern age. Three to 10 minutes of fiction brought to you Monday, Wednesday, and Friday evenings. Due to an inadvertent release from the Skinner Co, Microbiology Lab, and the resulting infection of our writer, our scheduled release of Coffin, Balm, part three, will be delayed until Monday. Instead, we offer up a brief interlude with our urban shamans, tipsy companion, Bunny Davis, as written by the mob zone time traveler. Supply Run, a Bunny Davis tale by Richard Jefferson. Written by Rich Jefferson, with art and narration by Opoponax, and audio production by Jessica May. Bunny Davis stepped out of the brick fronted apartment building, and onto the sidewalk with uncharacteristic steadiness. Turning and proceeding down the concrete path, she placed the reluctantly setting sun behind her. At her back, its ray has made her unremarkably blondish hair into a sudden and fierce aura of ruddy orange. Despite the clinging warmth of the late September evening, she pulled the faded jean jacket a little tighter about herself, and leaned forward as if she were making way against an invisible headwind. Her quick pace set the collection of buttons on her denim wrap rattling, and it drew her thoughts to them. Pretty much the entirety of them were logos for various brands of alcoholic beverage or another, the origin of which she'd long since forgotten. Two of them, however, were given to her by her roommate, her mentor, her boss? What the fuck was he, anyway? The first was a silver circlet of some Celtic design, or at least what someone whose sole source of knowledge on that particular culture sprung from Riverdance commercials took as such. The other was an old smiley face button, but smudged with a reddish splatter of ketchup or something, the meaning of which escaped Bunny. She had suspicion that at least one of these was a sort of talisman, and in fact, was almost certain of it in the case of the yellow grinning badge. As she crossed on to the second block of her journey, her reveries wandered to coffin. She had seen some strange things over the course of their association, and not seen some even stranger ones. Her mind moved to her relationship with the unusual man and started to analyze it. Like a child examining the ball from a sweet gum tree in their palm and moving it to peer through the tiny viewport said it's internal structure, she turned around their connection in her head, carefully, like it might poke if handled too directly. Oh, no you don't, Bunny. No you goddamn, don't, she thought to herself. You know what happens every time you think too much, just gets you deeper in her shit, and then in the end you fuck everything up. She attempted to push the thoughts away, and was losing the battle miserably when she rounded the corner and spotted her goal, Johnson's liquor and sundries. With the oasis in sight, all other thoughts began to drop from her head as she reached the entrance and stepped in. A quaint andachronistic hanging bell was brushed by the passage of the door and gave a cheerful tinkle. Only in coffins neighborhood would anyone still be using a fucking contraption like that, she mused, and the fading notions of introspection once more made for the beachhead of her conscious mind before being shoved back with finality. A time worn man with a spotty complexion sat behind the high checkout counter. His wild hair was mostly pure white, save for a light peppering of shock black that also ran to his bushy eyebrows and mustache. He was hunched over the same dog-eared copy of Catcher and the Rye he'd been reading for as long as Bunny could remember. "You've known Bunny," greeted the shopkeep without moving his head from the paperback. She tilted her head and managed a mostly friendly sounding response. Around her, the store was laid down neatly in rows beneath the raw fluorescent lighting. The whole place had the appearance of the oddest set of Pantone charts ever produced. One where the spectrum was predominated by pale yellows, browns, blacks, and the colorless, while slim riotous splash of chromatic revelry was banished to the kingdoms on the edges. Indeed, kingdom was apropos as the signs dangling from the ceiling near each section gave the feel of banners carried at opening ceremonies of some international event. Bunny moved to join the delegation from the nation of vodka with a practice that said she could have navigated the aisles blindfolded and heavily under the influence if need be, and probably had. Her eyes fell down the shelf to the lower level, only to find an empty space where her hand had already, quite of its own accord, attempted to locate a bottle. Hey, Johnson, where's the fucking pop-offs? The man picked his head up for the first time since she'd entered. I've told you more times than I can remember. My name isn't Johnson, that's just the name that was on the shop when I bought it. And second, the distributor forgot to add it to my last shipment, I'm out. Why don't you pick something better instead? That stuff's piss anyway. Make you go blind, you keep drinking it. He lectured with a creak in his voice that mirrored the doors. Blind my ass. I'm sorry, you look like a fucking Johnson. She added quietly, turning to survey the remaining selection. Bunny's brow furrowed as she stared at the array of spirits in front of her. Lost deep in an intricate cost-benefit calculation that would make the most accomplished accountant's head spin, she did not see the sole other shopper in the store slide next to her. What could put such an unhappy expression on the face of such a lovely lady? The interloper interrupted in an oily voice. Her concentration broken. Bunny inspected the source of the utterance. The man was probably in his very early 30s. Dark brown locks were combed back away from his well-tanned face, and he wore a loud tropical patterned shirt, open to show too much chest hair before tucking into the tightest pair of white pants she had ever witnessed a person managed to put on, let alone walk him. A single gold hoop earring adorned one ear and a gold rope chain circled his neck, weighed down by a garish and probably fake old medallion, which nestled uncomfortably in her suit's spray at the gap of the garment. A roguish smile projected from his face, showing a perfect set of teeth. What are you, a fuckin' extra from Saturday night fever? Bunny quipped harshly. The man's smile dropped to a scowl for a split second and resumed its former splendor. A brief pain traversed Bunny's skull like the passing shadow of a bird and settled to her stomach. She winced. I'm Anthony, but you can call me Tony, he gleamed. You're Bunny, right? Haven't I seen you with that guy? What's his name? Coffin, adorsets? Bunny frowned. See, here you big hairy ball sack. I'm only trying to get some supplies. Why don't you go there by the schnapps and fuck yourself so I can do that in peace. Again, Anthony's smile wavered and the feeling in the pit of her stomach lurched from pain to unsettlingly sick sensation. "Beautiful and feisty, I like that," he crooned. Her digestive tract did another flip flop, but despite the discomfort, she felt herself blushing at the advance. To her chagrin, she found herself becoming aroused, annoyed, partly at herself and partly at Tony, Bunny turned back to the shelf. Snatching the largest bottle of Smirnoff, she could find and giving in a quick squeeze to confirm it was not of a pricey pedigree, a warranting an actual glass container, she stomped Bricsley to the counter. Wordlessly, her transaction was completed with not Johnson. The purchased essentials safely within a brown paper bag, she looked across her shoulder to confirm Anthony was not following her and exited through the jangling doorway. "I apologize if I came on too strong," said the voice behind her. Bunny started and momentarily fumbled with her package. "She's as fucking Christ on a pogo stick, Anthony," she shouted. "You almost made me drop my stuff and I swear if you'd done that I would have ended you." Once more, his smile faltered and returned. Once more, the pain, the sickening and the blushing. "I said call me Tony," he recovered. "I don't think a woman such as you should have to buy her own booze. I certainly hope you don't plan a drink all along without any company. I will be ashamed. Won't you let me save you from that predicament?" His words oozed over her, a sticky blanket of speech. Bunny wondered why she was so resistant to talking with Tony. He certainly was attractive, if you ignored his sense of fashion. When was the last time she had gone out for a drink anyway? Not since coffin, at least not for any fucking reason other than to meet one of his god-beep clients. When was the last time she was hit on by an actual human being? Why shouldn't she have a little fucking fun once in a while? As if sensing her conflict, Anthony sidled closer to her and let his arms brush hers. "Hey, why don't you let me buy you a drink? I know a nice bar, nothing like dorsets, and you won't have to worry about seeing that wet blanket will coffin." Bunny's head was hot and it hurt. Her gut was assaulted by a whole squadron of butterflies and the effect was making her sober gate turn wobbly. Why not go with him? She was a good looking lady, damn it. And she didn't need to be cooped up in a fucking apartment full of a cult knickknacks and waiting for coffin to drag her off to God knows where to encounter God knows what fucking terrors every single fucking day. The unsteady woman stopped and stared into Anthony's eyes. You know, a drink sounds absolutely great. The man reached to hold her arm at the elbow, his smile more radiant than ever. "I'm so glad you agree," he heard. Bunny's head swooned with aching and blushing, waves of nausea crashed over her. She could feel the warmth of his hand through the denim of her coat. A faint whisper came in the back of her mind, but she could barely hear it above the pounding that had developed in her ears. She tried to steady her wobbly legs and listen, but everything was spinning. "If you like, we could even take in some dancing," continued Tony. She could see her reflection twirling in his gleaming bright eyes as the world careened about recklessly, an unexpected carnival ride. Her cheeks were far too flushed and the distant words, "What the fuck were they saying?" He took her arm and directed her along the street in the opposite direction she'd originally come. Bunny's sense of balance went completely and she leaned hard into her new acquaintance. "Why don't you let me carry that for you?" Anthony nodded towards the bag she held. She started to lift the brown paper sack towards him. That hazy muttering scratched at something like an itch in her mind, something important. She passed in the sack as though she were in days. Tony ran his hand along her jacket's lapel towards the formation of buttons. "Those are nice, would you get them?" He brushed against the items that Coffin had given her and gave them the same want and glance he had been leveling at Bunny. Abruptly, she broke contact with the man and an epiphany became clear in her foggy gaze. Stepping from him, she snatched her purchase back from him. Anthony's expression fell again and fixed as one of concern. "Well, fuck a duck," she managed to slur. Then Bunny, in one seamless motion, cracked the top on the vodka bottle, cradled in her arm and, without removing it from the bag, took a long draw from it. The warmth from the alcohol spread along her throat and chased away the ache in her head and the tossing in her stomach. The heat of the blush she had been under suddenly felt cold and fled in advance of the true fire of the drink. Ringing on from her head, the hushed cry managed to break through in the sudden silence. "Trust your instincts, don't think. Trust your instincts, instincts." Anthony stretched out to her, his palms up, as if about to plead his case anew. Not giving him an opportunity to open his mouth to speak, she reached towards him with amazing speed and ripped the ring from his ear. He let loose a decidedly girlish shriek. Immediately, he covered the lobe that began to bleed from under rough assault. An older woman shuffling down the opposite side of the street stopped to observe the commotion, looked puzzled as if she couldn't quite make sense of what she saw and returned non-pulsed to her journey. "Why'd you do that, bitch?" he shouted, as his formerly pleasant feature is clouded with anger. Bunny tilted her head as if he'd just asked the most patently obvious question in the world. "Well, I had a 50-fuckin' 50 chance, better than House Odds any fuckin' day. I figured whatever bubble you were using, it was either one or the fuckin' other of 'em." Not skipping a beat, her hand came back around and snatched the metal and with it the chain from around his neck. Anthony rippled momentarily as if caught in a heat mirage. To bunny, it seemed as if he shrank and stature a good four inches. His hairline retreated and his belly advanced. Deep crow's feet formed around his eyes, which stopped shining and went dull and sickly. The brilliant smile had twisted to a stained and crooked grimace. Tan faded from his skin until it became an unsettlingly pale. Anger coursed openly on his face. "You're gonna pay for that," he snarled. Not fuckin' likely. Bunny stated flatly before swinging from the bottle. "Not as long as I have this fuckin' trinket." She dangled the medallion on the broken necklace in front of his nose. He swung to take it back, but she had already pulled it away. And not once I give this to Coffin for sure. This is one fuckin' nasty piece I work ya stumbled on. She said between gulps from her container. I don't even wanna know how you figured out it got all juiced up. The more fuckin' pissed off you got at somebody. Who the fuckin' managed to screw with it while you were learnin' the ropes? But I'm pretty fuckin' sure I know someone who'll keep a watch on you. Make it so you don't have anything else fall in your greedy little hands that you shouldn't be playing with. Bunny reoriented her path towards Coffin's apartment and began to walk again. Anthony could only turn impotently to watch. Invibing the vodka deeply once more, she spat two words at the broken man in a low voice. Fuckin' dabbler. (dramatic music) 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 skier@skinner.fm or the voicemail line at 206-338-2792. But be aware that they may appear in a future flash cast. 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. (dramatic music) ♪ Sunday has glued me in my hour ♪ ♪ It's a number left ♪ ♪ Give it the shadows I live with our number left ♪ [MUSIC PLAYING] (upbeat music)