Part 3 of 3
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Tonight, Will Coffin, urban shaman, and Bunny Davis, his tipsy friend, find themselves deep in conversation with a dead killer.
The Skinner Co. Network
FP258 - Coffin: Dealing, Part 3 of 3
[Music] Welcome to Flashpulp 258. This evening we present Coughton, Dealing, Part 3 of 3. [Music] This week's episodes are brought to you by Nutty Bytes. 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 home drum 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 Bytes. Find out what's awesome. Nutty Bytes. mlast.org/blog. [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, Will Coffin, Urban Shaman, and Bunny Davis, his tipsy friend, find themselves in conversation with a dead killer. Coffin, Dealing, Part 3 of 3. Written by J.R.D. Skinner. Art and narration by Opoponix. An audio produced by Jessica May. [Music] The pause between the stringy-haired drunk, the leather-jacketed shaman, and the lacy-skirted stranger was a brief one. Bunny had no idea who John Coel was, why he apparently looked like a rockabilly hipster chick, or what life choices had driven him to murder the trio in the next room, but she certainly knew that she had a pistol in her hand, and she intended to use it. Coffin's reflexes were all that kept Priscilla Root alive. "Ooh, they're a quick draw, McGraw." He told his companion as he stepped into a line of fire. "Let's hold a quick conversation, then shoot 'em." The name's familiar. Coel. Weren't you some sort of murderous ferryman? Yeah, yeah. The dioramas are ringing a bell now. Blackall mentioned you. "Such wonders you have these days, with your electricity and your nail guns. Tools for a true creator they are," replied the man in the woman's body. His words rolled from plump pink lips. "I've always heard artists only gain proper notoriety after their death. It took nearly two hundred years, but even I've gathered an appreciative audience." "Did you know of Blackall, you say?" Interesting indeed. Certainly not a detail I was given before being asked to pass my message. Bunny had lowered the gun and edged beyond Will's shoulder, so that she might maintain a view of Coel. The living room was sizable enough, but its crowded shelves left the space feeling tight. Especially while holding the conversation across the dead fellow on the couch. "Here's some kind of f*cking murderous time-traveling drag queen?" She asked. "Oh, sh*t, I mean, I have no problem with how you want to dress. It's a murdering that makes me think you're an asshole." "No, I'm something of a reincarnation. I've been given command of the rather pleasing body of Priscilla Root, former girlfriend of the Sluggerd, coiled through a purple thumbnail towards the cadaver he shared the sofa with, and compatriot to the three in the kitchen." "It won't be long before they all reek," replied Coffin. Though his words were casual, his eyes roamed over the possessed woman's arms. Beneath the sleeves of Root's white-fringed vintage blouse, her limbs bore an interlocking maze of imagery. A school of coy fish flowed into the scales of looping dragons, whose smoky exhalations formed the tail feathers of murderous crows. Coyle smiled. "Oh, I'm quite used to it," he said something about a message, asked Will. "Yes, well, in truth, you're a wee bit early, but my bonfire was part of it. Your inebriate friend here, locked eternally by my needles into a position of prayer, will be the next. My benefactors want your knee bent. Whatever the cost." "Holy shit," said Bunny. "I don't want to sound cliche. I think I'm actually about to shoot a messenger." Despite her bluster, the killer's grin remained. Not this time. I have leverage, and I doubt you're so hard-hearted. Hear me, and you harm Priscilla Root. "Fine. Let's just call the cops then. It'd be pretty fucking hilarious to spend your second lifetime in a jail cell, wouldn't it? Give coffin plenty of time to whip up some mumbo jumbo and fish you out." As if in response, a nearby car door slammed, and the bewitched Miss Root batted her lashes. "Do you think the local constabulary will arrive in the neighborhood before the Burley Fellows, which I was asked to stall you for, managed to make their entrance?" The security system gave a cheerful double bang. "One of them has a gun," announced Coyle, to the now lit hallway. From the depths of the homemade art gallery, well beyond their view, came a deep-throated reply. "That's fine. We're carrying three of our own." The scuffle was short. A distracted bunny was disarmed by Coyle, who nimbly gained his feet and aimed a fist at her jaw. Caw then stepped back, with his fingers in his pockets, but before he might retrieve a towelsman, a scream split the air. It had emanated from one of the unseen newcomers, and was immediately drowned in a rush of chittering. Only one made it so far as the room's entryway. A thick-chested man in a simple gray suit. He held a pistol, but was too blind to find any use for it. About his neck maneuvered a pair of large black squirrels, their grasping claws dancing along the material at his collar, and their probing teeth finding purchase in the soft flesh of his face. He managed a gurgled request for help, then was set upon by a ragged-haired German shepherd, which laid its broad mouth across his left calf, and commenced to thrash. The intruder toppled, and a flood of night-creatures followed. It was a motley arrangement of malnourished tomcats, raccoons, and rats, which dragged him away. Then the house was once again silent. "The fuck was that?" asked Bunny, from her new position on the floor, as she rubbed her swelling cheek. Uninteresting, further conversation with the madman, caught an uncoiled his silver chain, and started its ornate hook along a rhythmic ark about his head. "Bloody sorcerers," muttered Coyle, and Will took his swing. The snare scarcely grazed Priscilla Root's temple, but it was enough, and the translucent form of a howling John Coyle was tugged from her flesh. Unlike his previous experiences with the crook of Ortez, however, Kofen found it necessary to maintain a contest of strength with the artifact, or otherwise allow the haunting spirit to return to inhabiting the woman. Priscilla sat heavily upon the already occupied couch, and began shrieking. "Ugh, getting punched by a hipster is a fucking worst. "There's nothing but knuckles," said Bunny, as she gained her feet. She moved to hush the panicked screamer. Will had worked to brace himself, but the greater the distance the stronger Coyle seemed to pull towards his anchor. To Priscilla's gaze, Kofen was engaged in a bizarre mime act, a fight with a chain floating of its own accord. "We need to know which is the new tattoo," demanded the struggling shaman. Without quite understanding the request, the weeping girl indicated a series of barbed swirls worked into the skin of a geisha which circled the back and palm of her left hand. "I'm sorry," replied Will, as he released his charm. The links fell as if suddenly unburdened, and Priscilla's root was re-invaded. Before the persistent phantasm could voice a note of victory, Bunny hid him. As she did her best to hold down the return shade, Kofen conducted a hurried search of the house and turned up a cleaver, obviously beloved by its former foodie owner, as well as the compressor and nail gun which Coyle had extensively misused. Using a dish towel as a cuff, Will quickly had Priscilla's adorned arm pinned to the kitchen tiles. Though a further set of similar restraints were necessary to quiet the maniac's struggles. Once in place though, there was time to plan. Finally, as sirens filled the early morning, and under the staring eyes of roots dead friends, Kofen began his surgery with a heavy drop of the butcher's blade. It was Priscilla alone who screamed when he pressed the red-bottom frying pan to her stump, and even as he followed Bunny out the rear exit, the same wailing pulled the paramedics through the gore of the hall in the living room and to the injured woman's side. As they rounded the neighboring industrial building and looked for a hole in the fence so that they might cross the tracks, Piski's voice came to them from the thicket beyond. "I'm a fool for a damsel in distress," he said. "I'm sure you'll find a way, thank me." Bunny considered a response, but instead kept her mouth busy with the bottle of pretentious Scotch she'd managed to locate in the recently abandoned dining area. "That's real sentimental of you, Piski," replied Will to the unseen animal lord. "I'd rather suspect, though, that you only saved me because I've got what you need." Coffin tossed the cursed and still flailing hand of the metal barrier, but did not wait for the chewing sounds of ripping sinew before continuing on. 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 skitter@skitter.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. ♪ Sunday is gloomy in my hour's last number left. Here is the shadows I live with our number left. [MUSIC PLAYING]