Part 1 of 1
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Tonight, our intrepid private investigator receives a lucrative offer.
The Skinner Co. Network
FP255 - Mulligan Smith in Making the Call, Part 1 of 1
[Music] Welcome to FlashPelp episode 255. This evening we present Mulligan Smith in Making the Call, part one of one. This week's episodes are brought to you by Phoenix Frasier. Want to help a cute mutt fight crime? Find out how at http/on.fb.me/phoenixthedog. [Music] FlashPelp 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 our intrepid private investigator receives a lucrative offer. Mulligan Smith in Making the Call, part one of one. Written by JRD Skinner, Art and Arration by Opoponax, and Audio produced by Jessica May. [Music] The silver haired man plucked at his jumpsuit's sleeve as he told his story. Olivia has always been out to get me. She knows I get depressed on my birthday, so every year there's a knock on my door. Not on my secretaries, not a buzz at the gate, not a visitor in the lobby. It's a knock on my door. The courier is well dressed, he's excited to have the job, and he has no idea what he's gotten himself into. He just stands there in his rented suit, grinning like an idiot, and holding the brightly wrapped box towards me. Well, usually. Sometimes it's something the size of a wallet case. But one year it came in a crate that stood nearly as tall as I do. The packaging doesn't matter much. It's always the same bloody thing inside anyhow. It may all look different, but a gun is a gun is a gun, so far as offering yourself is concerned. Hmm. Maybe she means it for protection? Suggested Smith as he shifted on his stool. The weapons always come preloaded with a single bullet. Well, replied the private investigator. Your ex-wife might just be superstitious. My mom wouldn't give a wallet as a present without slipping a quarter in the change pocket. She signs every card with a Hemingway quote. Okay, it's twisted, said Mulligan. But you have to admit, it's sort of classy. You need to help me get her. You need to help me make it stop, replied the storyteller in the orange outfit. The detective took a moment, staring at the blank weight roof before responding. Look, Mr. Barger. We're both aware that if I hadn't stumbled across your illegal entertainments, you wouldn't be here. I'm not eager to work for a man with a grudge. From behind the glass barrier, Charles Barger, former CEO and billionaire, straightened his prison uniform. I'm a businessman. I don't hold you responsible for my downfall, any more than I would hold Mercedes responsible if I crashed my car. As mentioned, she was always out to get me. I had a weakness, and Olivia exploited it. You were just the tool. Perhaps there was a time when I was angrier, but I've done my homework since. You're good at what you do, and I like people who are good at what they do. I don't mind being beat by the best, and now I require the best. Do this job for me, and I'll pay you thrice the wage she provided. Let's get that bitch. Smith lips sputtered quietly in consideration. Pfft. He told me a story. "So let me tell you one," he said. It's my father's, actually. It's about something he refers to as "the alien rule." In the late 70s, you want to get away from the city, for personal reasons. So he spent a bit working with a sheriff's office in a little backwater. A village with maybe a few hundred people living in it. One day, he hears from a guy named Sirly Davis. Sirly wasn't what his mom called him, of course, but everyone in a place that small has a nickname. Anyhow, he rings up deputy pops one morning, and he's shouting about UFOs. Now, as it happened, Davis was known to yell about a lot of things. And I guess extraterrestrials was one of them. He even met the type, I'm sure. And almost as I get out of my sight, you goddamn delinquents, ready for any nearby children. Whatever the case, Dad makes the drive, and sure enough, there's a crop circle, the size of a battleship stretching across Sirly's field. Huh, wasn't like the fancy loops you see on TV. Just a winding series of lines leveled through the wheat. With a few widening patches where everything had been pushed down. The pops is a patient guy, but apparently, he was losing it a bit with Davis. See, the Elder Smith figured it was maybe a rampaging animal, or even a couple of kids. So he's walking the pattern, trying to imagine what it might mean. Davis has fallen in the whole time, complaining. Over the course of the day, and with a flask helping to lubricate his train of thought, the farmer somehow emerged his UFO theory with his delinquent preoccupation. He was sure the local miscreants had summoned them to mess with him. So they probably learned it from that close encounters of the third kind movie. Yeah, and I able to take conspiracy talk anymore. Dad wigs them off and drives back to town. He dials a pilot friend of his, an hour's drive away, and asks for a ride in his plane. Sweetens the deal with 50 bucks from the policeman's ball fund. He goes aloft, comes back, and doesn't report much. Few of the locals, pals of his, ended up approaching him before he could break the department's budget any further. Guess they'd gotten sick of having their kids shouted at. So half the town's resident said, had a bit of wine the previous night, and headed out with some planks. Took 'em until dawn, but one of them was an engineer. And he put in the effort to create a plan that left them with the drawing of a man, proudly displaying his middle finger. Mulligan zipped his hoodie. "Right," he said. "I appreciate the flattery. I really do. And I'm sure I could overcharge you for plenty of blue blowers. But there remains the detail that I sort of loathe you. You can blame your wife for your woes all you like. Frankly, I don't much intend on working for her again either. But you should keep Dad's rule in mind. Sure, it may be an alien, but when you're an asshole, everything tends to look like an anal broke. Chin up, though. Since the putchy and jail, it's pretty unlikely Olivia will be delivering a fresh gun this year. Barger was still a mustering or reply, as Mulligan replaced the black-corded receiver and made for the door. 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 flashcast. We'd also like to thank the Freesound 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 hours, I'm number left. ♪ ♪ Here is the shadows I live with are number left. ♪ (dramatic music) You