Part 1 of 1
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Tonight, Mulligan Smith, private investigator, finds himself trapped in a labyrinth of horrors.
The Skinner Co. Network
215 - Mulligan Smith in Homegrown, Part 1 of 1
[Music] Welcome to FlashPulp, Episode 215. Tonight, we present Mulligan Smith in Homegrown, Part 1 of 1. [Music] This week's episodes are brought to you by Asunder. Twenty years after the American Civil War, former slave Marcus Riggs found himself trapped in a British harbor after the invaders came to enslave all mankind. They came, they conquered, they die. Out of the ashes, new orders struggle to rule the former empires of earth, but the invaders aren't completely beaten only, biding their time. Asunder, written and performed by John Mira, learn more at ServingWorld.com. [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, Mulligan Smith, Private Investigator, finds himself trapped in a labyrinth of horrors. Mulligan Smith in Homegrown, Part 1 of 1. Written by J.R.D. Skinner. Art in narration by Opoponax. An audio produced by Jessica Mann. [Music] Smith was tempted to pull his hands from his hoodie pockets so that he might feel his way along the poorly lit corridor, but he refused to deepen his friends' anxiety by appearing to be stumbling about the place. Instead, he depended on quick elbow work and a slow shuffle to navigate the plywood halls. Ahead of him, a woman screamed. He brought him up short, but Mulligan knew that if he lost his forward momentum, there would be problems. "Come on," he said. "It's just hooligans." "Stay out of my face," Billy Winnipeg told the darkness, "or I'll leave you out like an abandoned highway." Taking a sharp left, they stumbled into a flat walled room. The space was lit by a single flickering bulb, and the sound of rats seemed to scurry just out of sight. Before Smith could better inspect the room, Winnipeg's rough shoulder encouraged him into the connecting tunnel. As a chain saw roared at the far opening, Mulligan wondered if the big man regretted his rush. He could hear Billy cursing and turning to retreat, but the Canadian was brought to a halt by a silent woman in a crimson gown and a domino mask, standing directly behind him. "Just let me be," Winnipeg muttered, but Smith prodded him firmly in the spine and drew him towards the clatter of the motor. They stepped into the chamber, all need to be pinned by a spotlight, and, as they shielded their eyes, the engine suddenly ceased. The room was decorated and scrawled red writing, but the radiance had crippled Mulligan's night vision, and he could barely discern the text. Billy, eager to recover his honor, motion the detective onwards, and proceeded to the gloomy mouth of the next passage. It was as they moved blindly through the apparent void that Smith heard a whisper in his ear. "Herb?" said the invisible man. "Yeah," replied Mulligan. A rough hand grabbed at a sweater sleeve, and he felt himself redirected into an accessway alongside the hall. Although completely lost, the heavy tread of Winnipeg's boots, still close at hand, was reassuring. Smith had been deliberately vague with Billy when he had told him the facts of the case. He had only emphasized its importance, which was essential to convincing the spookable connect to join him in venturing through Capitol Garden's annual haunted houses. Although the decaying tourist trap was amongst the city's least visited attractions, its Halloween exhibition transformed the hot houses and office spaces into a maze of blankets, plywood, and underpaid temporary workers. In truth, Mulligan found the mix of filmy, glass, and jury-rigged plastic sheeting appeared somewhat sinister enough at the best of times, which is why he had brought along his companion. Now, however, with his friends breathing obviously approaching the edge of panic, Smith began to feel some regret at his lack of clarity about the situation's seriousness. And he wished he'd been more honest regarding the single mom of four, a waitress who'd haggled his price down to something she could manage on her thin income. He'd met Mrs. Henry three weeks earlier. She's a real shit-digger. She's coming home with extra cash, and she doesn't explain it. Hell, sometimes I think she's bringing in more than I am. But her opening words. As he stood in the murk, Smith had to remind himself that it was only a teenage girl of which she had spoke. He had been a following Cecilia Henry, seventeen, since then. But despite her mother's concerns that she was busy turning tricks, his time was largely spent watching her work at the gardens, or observing her at home, where she occupied herself with homework and bossing siblings. Still, her demand for efficiency made Cecilia a natural leader, and in the low-pane environment of the nearly bankrupt gardens, it had seemed to the detective that she'd worked her way into a controlling position over the small workforce of high school students. Smith admired her drive, if not her means. Another light came on, hung directly from overhead, and illuminating a short plaster pillar. The stand's flat surface was empty. "Money," demanded a female voice from somewhere beyond the tight ring of brilliance. There was a three-second window in which he was tempted to lay down a twenty to see what kind of stagecraft would happen next. He suspected a second spot would come on, revealing his purchase. He even wondered briefly if the plants were grown in one of the nearby flower beds. Then a startled fun-seeker gave a far-off shriek, and Winnipeg exploded. "You dog-tickling bastards! Where's Herb?" Without waiting for a reply, he charged the murk. Smith hadn't realized his friend wouldn't recognize the street corner marketeer's ganja-selling call, and he could only assume Billy's mind had constructed a kidnapping plot around an imaginary herbert. There was no opportunity to correct the mistake before the impact. It would have been worse for the two delinquents that Winnipeg had managed to clothesline, if it weren't for the fact that the illegal detour had brought them into a room constructed of plywood on three sides, and a heavy tarp for the fourth. While the flimsy construction was impossible to identify from the interior, as Billy's force carried him into the makeshift back wall, his bulk tore away the massive patch job, flooding the false room with parking lot lights. There was a chorus of expletives thrown out, but Mulligan couldn't miss the "shit-digger!" amongst the bunch. Turning towards the sound, he grabbed the shoulder of the lightest of the black-swear-wearing teenagers who were attempting to scatter at the sudden exposure, and tugged off her cloth skeleton mask. A distant siren split the air. The next morning, a Smith paid the tab for Billy's moons over Miami. His gaze drifted over an abandoned newspaper left splayed at the counter. He was pleased to read that a drunken brawl amongst miscreants had broken up an apparent drug ring at the likely to now close gardens. He also had to admit some satisfaction in noting that the police currently held no suspects. It had been a near thing, but when he delivered her daughter home, the fire in his client's eyes had convinced him that Cecilia already had more than enough to fear in her future. 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@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]