Part 3 of 6
Read the full text, as well as the show notes, at http://flashpulp.com
Tonight, Thomas Blackhall, master frontiersman and student of the occult, finds himself fleeing his place of rest.
The Skinner Co. Network
FP251 - The Tightened Braid: a Blackhall Tale, Part 3 of 6
[Music] Welcome to Flashpulp episode 251. This evening we present The Tightened Braid, a black haultail, part 3 of 6, Absolute Corruption. This week's episodes are brought to you by Groggy Frog Massage. Live in Toronto? Want to feel better about everything you know and love? Talk to Kim from Groggy Frog about a Thai Massage. Find her on Facebook by searching for Groggy Frog Thai Massage or point your browser towards http colon slash slash bit dot l y slash Groggy Frog. Capital G Capital X. [Music] Monday is gloomy, my hour is a number left. Give it the shadows, I live with our number left. [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 Thomas Blackhall, Master Frontiersman and Student of the Occult finds himself fleeing his place of rest. The Tightened Braid, a black haultail, part 3 of 6, Absolute Corruption. Written by J.R.D. Skinner, Art and Narration by Opoponax, an audio produced by Jessica Me. The trio stood staring at the corpse which lie face down on the floor of Thomas's closed walled lodging. "I couldn't," said Cher. His voice was small but fell heavily onto the space's silence. Events began to move quickly then. "It would be best if we relocated to Jensen's tanning shack immediately," Blackhall replied, as he grabbed up his Baker rifle and saber. The main room was populated by a dozen diners and a smattering of drunks. It seemed as if each took a moment to cast a raised brow towards the quickly exiting men, but Thomas felt no need to explain the sounds of struggle which had emanated from his chamber. Instead, he provided only a wave to the barkeep as he seated his hat and pushed through to the winter's early night. Cold had kept most of the settlement's inhabitants as near their fires as they could manage, and the snow drifts and blackened shops provided little welcome beyond the public house's warm windows. As he laid a boot into the darkness, Thomas held onto the hope that his temporary landlord's professional pride would overcome his curiosity and prevent him from intruding upon the corpse occupying his abandoned bunk. He took some comfort in the fact that it was a short excursion through moon-shadowed wooden alleys to the edge of town. The Tanner's plot was pungent with soaking flesh and strong abrasives, bringing the cluster of hurried travelers to a halt well away from its rough facade. The powder was ankle-deep and piling ever higher as they waited, but the hesitation gave the young private, who had so recently disclosed the soric nature of his captain's doings, an opportunity to once again find his voice. "Well," he said, "I think it's time I say good night." "They'll assume you played a part and the murder fits you," replied Blackhall. "You know well enough I did not," spat the lad. "Your man here has fed my lips such that I believe they'll understand my circumstances." "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, for all I've done. I've never been such a fella," interjected the fingerless she. His neck grew short and his shoulders rolled and agony. "I've never met nobody in Herman, yet," the youth's brow softened. "Cry not. My mother would give me worse for an improperly set table. I'll say as little as I can, for as long as I can, but I dare not be caught up further in this madness." "I'm not built to fight devils, and I've no want to receive the same fate as poor Fitz." "Might you continue to lend your aid," asked Thomas. "I'm not pleased to seek help, but the loss of my tools is a dire thing. Worse yet, while I don't intend a fence to our friend here, his sobbing does not bode well for the strength of his nerve." Though he appeared lost and his weeping, she bristled at the remark. "What are you, you black horse, speak ill of me? You who have left me wretched!" "No. Even as I say it, I know I am wrong. I could have lived with killing the harpier on your behalf, which was all you truly asked, but not the captain. It is too much." As if summoned by the mention, a forum came staggering around the distant corner and onto the back street, which had been their final exit from town. At the moment, the drooping mustache hovering over the upturned jacket collar seemed to mirage, but as the figure neared, he became unmistakable as the supposedly deceased fits you. Shea's eyes again welded at the discovery, and he rushed the soldier with a tongue jabbering in relief. "I got you, give me a fright. I apologize for my brash maneuvers, and I wish you only well, sir. We believed you did!" His eager greeting was countered by the bone-handled knife which snaked from Fitzhugh's pocket and across the absolved murderer's throat. As life began to flow from the dying man, another newcomer arrived. He was dressed in a lumber or stocky coat and worn boots, but there was no missing the fury in his eyes, nor the thick military man's mustache which he bore. From beneath the sleeve which covered his right arm, leaked a trail of blood, and each heavy step marked the ivory ground with a spray of crimson. Though Shea recognized the second Fitzhugh immediately, his slick palms could do little to staunch his own wound's flow, and before he might even turn to warn his companions, his knees gave out. With his cheeks still damp, he fell forward. He would not rise again. Understanding that there was no further time to argue, black hole bolted towards the tannery. The ragged entrance gave only the briefest resistance to his flying shoulder, and he found some luck in that the object he sought. A small oak drum bearing a freshly stretched skin and a ring of leaves engraved about its base, was upon a workbench close at hand. As he regained the road, the sound of lashed horses drifted from somewhere beyond the oncoming twins, and on the same wind which carried the cracks, also came another Fitzhugh's voice, profoundly urging on the nags and harness. With a final prodding showed at the transfixed private, Thomas held tight his regained instrument, and made for the woods. The youth did not follow. [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 Skinner@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]