Part 1 of 1
Read the full text, as well as the show notes, at http://flashpulp.com
Tonight, private investigator Mulligan Smith unexpectedly returns to a client’s home to complete some paperwork.
The Skinner Co. Network
FP245 - Mulligan Smith in Release, Part 1 of 1
[♪♪♪] Welcome to FlashPulp, episode 245. This evening we present Mulligan Smith in "Release, Part 1 of 1." [♪♪♪] This week's episodes are brought to you by Gatecast. [♪♪♪] Hi, I'm Alan. And I'm Mike. Do you like Stargate SG-1? Did you think it was all over? We didn't, and so the Gatecast was born. We are two guys with far too much time on our hands, exploring the stories of Stargate Command, episode by episode. [♪♪♪] With commentary about our favorite SG team's adventures. You mean the girly kick-ass team from Atlantis? No, we're talking about Jack O'Neill, Sam Carter, Daniel Jackson, and Thiuk, and make up SG-1 along with Dr. Frazier, Walter, and Gerald Hammond. Who lead the human race towards new worlds. Where people have certainly been before, and some a long, long time ago. Each week a new episode will be discussed along with news and listener comments. So search for Gatecast on iTunes or use your chosen podcatcher. Or visit us at gatecast.facecast.com or our Facebook page. And join in the fun. We guarantee our comments will be read out. Gatecast, by fans, for fans. [♪♪♪] Flash Pope is an experiment in broadcasting fresh Pope stories in the modern age. Three to ten minutes of fiction brought to you Monday, Wednesday, and Friday evenings. Tonight, private investigator Mulligan Smith unexpectedly returns to a client's home to complete some paperwork. Mulligan Smith in release, part one of one. Written by J.R.D. Skinner. Art and narration by Opopon X. An audio produced by Jessica May. [♪♪♪] Mulligan couldn't hear the crying, or the shouting, or the cop's narrator babbling endlessly from the forgotten television in the next room. The kitchen had grown small, smaller than any he'd ever been in, he thought, and his ears were filled with the pounding ocean, the blow of a hurricane, the hammering of some medieval blacksmith. His ears were filled with the sound of his heart and the roar of his blood. "Oh boy, ain't this embarrassing," he said, pushing the words out to give his stomach some release from the urge to vomit. The man he was addressing, Christopher Gaskins, turned towards the private investigator. The former client's eyes were wide. "Smith?" he asked in a tight voice. Gaskins wore a brown robe, its open front splitting the two halves of an ancient coffee stain. His only other attire was a simple pair of pin-striped pajama bottoms. His belly hung well over the drawstring, and his chest hair was peppered with grey. There was a knife, a ginsu, as ordered from an infomercial, tucked into the hip of his flimsy pants. "Yeah," replied Mulligan. "You, uh, forgot to give me the code on the back of your credit card. I need it to process my fees, you know. I'm almost forgetting to collect it." The more he talked, the further the furious rumble receded so that he was able to identify a new sound entering the room. Christopher's lips were trembling, and his throat took on hitching rhythm. A sharp-pitched whale rattled over the grout and tile countertops and echoed between the pants suspended above the cluttered island. The sight of a weeping middle-aged man was always disheartening to the detective, but the .308 hunting rifle gaskins was holding would have been enough alone to dissuade him from attempting to comfort the armed man. As it was, Smith reminded himself not to let his gaze wander towards the stove and took a step forward. "Might, I guess that you've intentions on eventually swallowing that gun," he asked. "I've delivered bad news before. I know how it is. It can feel like the world is ending, but there's help to be had." "Bad news?" replied Christopher. "This isn't exactly learning you haven't been promoted, or that dear Uncle Bill has died." Mulligan was pleased to see the firearms barrel sag despite the retort. His fingers dipped into his hoodies' pockets. "No, it's infidelity," he said, as he attempted to adopt the psychiatrist's smooth tone. "I'm not saying it's an easy thing to deal with, but it happens all the time." Your wife knew the guy had cancer. She went to that hotel with full knowledge that it was a one-time thing. "If it's so common, why does it hurt so bad?" When Gaskins had first hired Mulligan, he'd seem starstruck by the popular notion of what being a PI meant. Now, with no alternative, Smith decided to bluff his profession's worldly reputation. It was obvious from our initial meeting that you're a bit tightly wound. I mean, you thought it was worth hiring me to see if Joan was a meth addict, and it was really only a coincidence that I stumbled on to her dead guy fling. "It's like that old groucho line. If I hold you any closer, I'll be in back of you." Anything held too tight as bound a break. I've seen it all before, though, as I mentioned. Had a client try to jump off his apartment building's roof one time. Poor bugger was thinking so unclearly that he didn't even notice he'd left towards the outdoor pool. He survived, but his half-bounce on the water's edge was enough to leave him without the use of his legs. On the upside, he married his physiotherapist. "Now, my point is, and I don't mean to be rude. You need a doctor, not a gun." Christopher's moist cheeks now carried rivers, and his ribs compressed between sobs. "Listen," said Smith. "You're hurt. Anyone can see that, and anyone would want to assist you. Chris, you are sick in a way you can't deal with. Let me help." "I'm gonna walk over there and hug you. Shoot me, or don't." Mulligan closed the distance and wrapped his arms around gaskins, who was still holding the rifle across his chest. The barrel of the weapon, which was propped awkwardly between their shoulders, discharged as Smith touched Christopher's neck with the stun gun he'd hidden in his hoodie's wide sleeve. Gaskins' body listed, and he dropped the ground. Lowering himself onto one knee, Mulligan punched 911, nudged the .308 to a safe distance, and then flatly stated the street and house number. As Christopher began to mutter, he again pressed the crackling electrodes to the cockled skin. The desire to gag had returned, and now there was less reason not to. He knew, however, that he had no choice but to address the pair of weeping children who'd huddled within the island's cupboards for shelter. Backening them from their hiding spot, he moved to block the view of the stove. "You said Dad was sick," asked the boy, who looked seven and was only wearing billowing Chicago bull shorts. "Will he get better?" "Hopefully," replied Smith. "But sometimes it takes a big pill or a large needle or a high voltage electric shock to start getting better." "What about Mom?" asked the girl, a five-year-old in Toy Story pajamas. "Head out to my car. It's the blue one in the driveway. And I'll be right there to talk," suggested Mulligan. As the blood flowing from Jones's body continued to flood the linoleum's ruts and grooves, the neighborhood began to fill with sirens. Turning his head, Smith dialed down the oven's burner. And finally, the sizzling heart seized cooking. 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]