Part 1 of 1
Read the full text, as well as the show notes, at http://flashpulp.com
The Skinner Co. Network
201 - Mulligan Smith and The Golfer, Part 1 of 1
[music] Welcome to FlashPulp, episode 200, and 1. Tonight, we present Maligan Smith and the golfer, part 1 of 1. This week's episodes are brought to you by Scott Roche. [music] Hey, Marcia. What are you doing? I'm reading a book on my Kindle. What? Those ebooks can be so expensive. Don't I know it. But in these tough economic times brought on by poor political and economic decisions for previous administrations, both Republican and Democrat, as well as the current administration, we need a little help. And that help comes in a little money saver called a coupon. Really? Cool. Tell me more. Well, I got this coupon to Scott Roche's horror story, Fetch. That can be found on Smashwords. All I had to do was enter that code at the checkout and wham, bam, thank you, Scott Roche. Send me that code, will you, Marcia? I want to save money and read an awesome story, too. Gosh, does Scott Roche have more stories? He has a ton of short stories, compilations, and a novel at Smashwords. I've read them all, and everyone is excellent! You should get them all, too. If you'd like to read a great story and save some money to, then enter this code, et33j, at Smashwords to get discount on the story Fetch by Scott Roche. ♪♪ ♪♪ 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 encounters a caddyless man with a grievance. Mulligan Smith and the Gulf, part one of one. Written by J.R.D. Skinner, Art and Nourishing Biopoponix, and Audio produced by Jessica May. ♪♪ "Don't," said Mulligan. The golfer, a man of fifty, lowered his club. Running a gloved hand along his black-died comb over, he considered the lanky intruder in the zipped hoodie. "Why?" he asked. The ball-flogger was wiggling his driver subtly, and Smith wondered if he was guessing at what the thick ebbany head might do to a skull. Rather than become part of an impromptu experiment, the private investigator opted to speak quickly. "I understand how you feel," he said. "Folks I work for often have a tough time dealing with the emotional loss of a loved one." "Loss of a loved one?" "She's not dead. She's f*cking a UPS guy." "True," replied Mulligan. "I know it's f*cking true. I paid you a quarter of years' wages to find it out." Smith noted that beneath his green polo's collar, his ex-client's neck had turned an alarming shade of red. "Okay, fine, but do you still love her?" asked Mulligan. He pulled deeply from his slurpee as he awaited the answer, his freehand idling in his sweater's right pocket. "Yes, no, I want to, but I can't." The highly engineered graphite club shook under the cuckold's mid-shaft grasp and the detective turned slightly to give the sportsman an awkward sort of privacy. "So leave her and move on," said Smith. "Not saying it's any fun, but I've had plenty of customers do it before." "Give her half the business? Sell the house we spent a decade designing and building? What kind of crap does she tell the kids? Would I ever even see them again?" The man wiped away the line of spittle which had drifted from his lip to his chin and rolled his shoulders. He returned his grip to the handle and took on a stance any professional would be proud of. "My life is over," he said, taking a few gentle practice swings. As he formulated his response, Mulligan's gaze wandered across the theoretical field of play. The overpass provided a clear view to the distant horizon, and he could only guess that the number of gridlock civilians trapped in their gas-guzzling four-wheeled capsules. The rush-hour traffic was awash with the afternoon sun, and the matters had been made more agonizing by the stalled hatchback the PI had seen to be blocking the leftmost lane, five miles further along the highway's concrete ribbon. For a moment, Smith considered the results of one of the dimpled balls taking flight. In his imagination it cruised, like a kamikaze pigeon over the glass-seave windshields to finally explode into some unsuspecting middle manager's cell phone conversation with his grocery list dispensing wife. Would the round missiles still be moving quickly enough to kill the fellow on impact? Or would it come to an oozy halt in an eye socket? His fingers tightened around his hidden taser. Listen, I know a homeless paraplegic drunk who lives on rotting pizza scraps dumped from a chucky cheese. He is a crack addict who spends the majority of his waking periods inspecting his useless legs for maggots, both real and imagined. But he's also the most upbeat guy I've met. Why don't we take a stroll and find them? Give you some perspective and a chance to clear your brain a bit. This too shall pass and all that. Smith's former employer ignored the invitation. "Thought about this for a while. Always figured it would be almost like ski-bowl," he said instead. Me and Sharon used to head this way to escape the city. She'd pick me up after my shift at gas and go. We'd sneak down the back roads to this hillbilly driving field she'd found. There was never anyone else around. So we'd meander over in her mom's chugging jalopy, smoking joints the whole way, and spend the night hitting balls. A quarter in this clanging beast of a machine would spit you out a bucket's worth. It's a bit of a ride, and it just as often be dusk by the time we got there. It didn't matter that we couldn't see where the hits were landing. We were just happy to share a bottle of wild turkey in each other's company. Smith nodded, but before he could answer, the wronged husband continued. It's been you since we were on the green together. Now everything dribbling from her mouth seems so moronic. I don't know why it hurts so much if I can't stand there anymore. The married man considered the line of six spheres he'd set at the curb's edge and cocked his ear to better hear the drone of the cars below. He raised the club to his shoulder. Taser-drawn Mulligan made a last attempt to reach the mourner. Fine, then consider this. If I don't fire a few thousand volts into you and you do kill someone, it'll be prison. You aren't going to manage cop-assisted suicide wielding only a rich man's toothpick. I'm not afraid of jail. You were so concerned that Sharon would get half of everything. How are you going to feel when she has it all? You won't have to worry about dividing up your dream home. The whole thing will be hers. I wonder if the UPS guy likes leather couches and chrome kitchen fixtures. It was a roar of rage, then the golfer kicked his column of plastic eggs into the gutter and shattered the driver over his knee. With a gurgle and upraised arms, he fell to the pavement, weeping. Realizing that the danger had passed, Smith decided it would be prudent to wait another day before delivering the reminder regarding his outstanding bill. 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 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]