Tonight, we welcome Captain Pigheart into the Flash Pulp universe, so that he might tell us a salty tale of holiday doings.
The Skinner Co. Network
FPGE2 - Pigheart's Accursed Christmas
[Music] Welcome to Flashpulp, guest episode two. This evening, we present Pighart's Acursed Christmas. This episode is brought to you by Captain Pighart.com. Home of all the swashbuckling you might ever want to handle. 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, we welcome Captain Pighart into the Flashpulp universe so that he might tell us a salty tale of holiday doings. Pighart's Acursed Christmas, written and narrated by Captain Pighart. Tis I, Captain Ignatius Pighart, I've returned to bring ye an adventure of the seas, an adventure of Christmas, that happy time of the year that you probably look forward to with fondness. For myself, tis a time of dread and ill happenstance, tis the nature of being a pirate. Allow me to relate ye, me a cursed Christmas. Ahhh. The first snowflakes were soaking into the briny seas. Ice caught in me beard, and I got my first chilling sense of the Christmas to come. The nearest harbor, Euler Del Morbida of the coast of Spain, happened to be Monty McBubo's hometown. Me foul cook had been a vagabond for years, and were dead against a return. Aha! I be counting here, and we was in sore need of a port to weather thee, well, to weather the weather. The waves are less fun when it's freezing. As we drew near, the lads were full of Christmas cheer, already swinging and swinging rum in the worrigging. The hamlet seemed quiet from the water, in spite of the festive bunting and lanterns. The dearth of folk were a might-worrying, but the crew vanished nonetheless, like rats as soon as the gangplank fell. They were scarcely out of sight before there were screams and hails of abuse. All seemed well. And yet minutes later the doctor dragged a bloody Johnny Scuttle aboard. One dock-worker had lunged out of the dark, and taken a liking to Johnny's noggin, forcing gunter, our fine doctor, to use his surgical skills defensive like. But Scuttle worried he'd drip in fearfully, so we left him together. Billy-no-mates and myself stowed down the bloody pier, and found the man gunter had so neatly nailed up. We gave him a prod and left for our hearts, as he gnashed his gory teeth at us, in spite of the cold steel in his heart. It was not natural, him growling, so he put iron through the rest of him. The bits jiggled still, so he blued him into the harbour. Barry announced that it were a bad omen for the season, and in time-honoured fashion, so it will overturn the earl luck by parading naked about the grim bastard. It was another good reason to see the sights, besides me chewed up crewmen. The village were possessed to the grisly decor of a Slavic serial killer turned interior designer. The plain stucco clashed with the blood-slash-walls and tressel tables strewn with body bits. It seemed Christmas had gone wrong. The terrified locals and me crew were being menaced in the middle of the square by a horde of raging, champion loons. Their eyes were glazed, and their gobs are drool, seeking to slate their thirst for human blood. Or so we assumed, not knowing the exact details, but familiar with the general principles of a zombie plague. A noise at me sight had me spinning upon me pegged to the sight of a postulant creature lurchin from the shadows, which was but monty. He dragged us into an alley, where a tiny crone burst out from behind him, hissing in her toothless way, "The curse! The curse!" Ah, she fair scared the cockles off a lot of us. Billy pulled some groin-old muscle in surprise. By the light of a guttering candle, she lisped towards their woes. Some days before, as the town began to gird itself at Christmas, a magical man arrived, and amazed him with his conjuring. To her all most jolly, until the magician turned the mayor's daughter into a mermaid, who promptly flopped about and died from lack of water. The townsfolk, being of a provincial nature, knew a witch when they saw one and acted accordingly. As his toes caught fire, the conjurer accursed the town to a terrible death. Naturally they laughed this often, toasted marshmallows and the like. The next day, though, were less cheery, when some fool on here and allowed banging from within the crypts opened, and so unleashed the undead fiends. By now they was either sombified, hiding, or being munched upon. There were but little ho-ho here. My instincts were simple. Gather what crew remained and cast off post-haste. This simple plan gave the crone some former fit, judging by the spittle and gurning. Monty, on the other hand, looked somewhat sheepish, as the crone flung a pendant at him in a beseeching manner. I was about to step in for Monty's a mite fragile, and I'm not paying for any more breakages. Monty sighed and took the proffered pendant. As he did so, an unearthly glow enveloped his crumbling frame, and on his head a crown shone bright. The crone were suffocating wildly. We settled for some all-purpose genuflection instead, but she insisted on shrieking, "Last you returned, master, to help our soul!" Until Billy clipped her with his pistol, for there was wailing a plenty past the wall. Monty had the decency to look embarrassed, and confided that Lord Montygu to Del Morbida was his birthright. He'd fled in shame, having fleeced the peasantry with holy tithes, to board off the evil spirits. The leprosy were a sort of uniform. Ah, the poor lad blamed himself, and begged me for aid. A new plan formed quickly than the cloud of seagulls about a beached whale. We booted the crone out into the street to scream a diversion, while re-ran to the cemetery atop the hill. Monty was loath a lever, but since he'd left the whole village to the gastronical mercies of the undead, one more ought to be no more gollen. Monty's glow grew brighter, lighting up the ancient grave Sir Mountain in the peak. He strode amongst him, muttering darkly, causing a tomb to pop open, revealing a cache of weaponry. Monty passed to each of us a ghoulish green sword, which hummed and buzzed in our hands, as we swung an experiment alike. They cut clean through the first zombie to find us, like a spoon through oven-baked jellyfish. That signalled our charge, and we fell upon the health spawn with our holy weapons. It was more fun than pufferfish cricket, although twice as messy. Before we knew it, we was hacking into the living. It was clear that the village at all were over, and I drew Monty aside. I grasped his duties and all, but, frankly, having doomed his people anyway, we might easily turn this tragedy into treasure. Honor and greed swapped slaps behind his eyes, until his righteous glow faded, and he wore me larseness and leperous chef once more. I passed him a finger he dropped earlier, and we sat about finding the remnants of the crew. Much, much later, after we drained the seafront of ale, we tottered back aboard the grim bastard. Frightful bellowing issued from below decks, accompanied by a grim Germanic giggle. Nah, we'd forgotten about young Johnny Scuttle. Something hinted at this not being a complete recovery, but insulated by drink, we flung back the bolts. At first I trusted not me eyes, drunk as they were. A nightmare clambered from the dark, with Johnny's head, if not his body, for it had far too many arms, and seemed part-turtle. Looming into the lamp-light, I espied fine needle-point, that digressed into a charming depiction of the village at sunset across his chest. The doctor chuckled in delight. "Yeah, we have been most busy with the plague. This is much interesting. See young Johnny. Ah, his brain is gone, but he has now as if for arms. Just sink as he's scrubbing, now, watch him scamper." "Ah, me stern as an horror lost out to drunken mirth, as poor Johnny scuttled about, snapping toothlessly like a violently senile crab. I thought it best to chain him, but Sharon insisted that Johnny'd be a fine pet, and set about knitting him a sick, limbed rompersuit for roving the boat. He was an odd Christmas, although not without profit. We left the town of fire behind us and tied up our gold, and we sailed on into a new year of bright dreams and broken hearts. And the same I wish to ye." Flashpulp is presented by flashpulp.com and is released under the Canadian Creative Commons attribution non-commercial 2.5 license. Texts and audio commentaries can be sent to skir@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]