Part 2 of 3
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Tonight, Will Coffin, urban shaman, and his roommate, Bunny, find themselves involved in an unusual deathwatch.
The Skinner Co. Network
179 - Coffin: Nurture, Part 2 of 3
[♪♪♪] Welcome to FlashPulp, episode 179. Tonight, we present Coffin, Nurture, part 2 of 3. [♪♪♪] This week's episodes are brought to you by Words from Walter. [♪♪♪] Walter, do you hear bad? [♪♪♪] Hell, may not be a mind place, but do you want to be here for eternity? Beginning May the 8th, 2011, Words from Walter is a new series featuring the diary excerpts of Walter, the undead hitman from Boiling Point, the first volume of Frank. From the mind of Neil Cohen, in conjunction with the real Walter Schuller, discover secrets, lies, death, and regret as we delve into the diary of a troubled hitman residing in hell. For more about the author, please visit, NeilCoven.com, that is, N-E-I-L-C-O-L-Q-U-H-O-U-N.com. Stay alive. [♪♪♪] [♪♪♪] Flashpulp is an experiment in broadcasting freshpulp stories in the modern age, three to ten minutes of fiction brought to you Monday, Wednesday, and Friday evenings. Tonight, WillCoven, urban shaman, and his roommate bunny find themselves involved in an unusual death watch. [♪♪♪] Coffin, nurture, part two of three. Written by J.R.D. Skinner, Art and Narration Biopoponax, and audio produced by Jessica May. [♪♪♪] The man which Will had mentally nicknamed "The Hustler" had wasted an hour of his time that afternoon, and Coffin's patience was running short. Look, you've hassled me every day for the last week. I've got your card, but you've got my answer. I'm not now, nor will I likely ever be, interested in letting you make bank on some poor bastard who's stuck waiting around for the afterlife. I'd no more put you in touch with anything serious than I'd entrust you with atomic weaponry. Or, for that matter, my non-existent sister. Bunny, who felt awed about drinking around aggravating strangers, leaned forward on the bench that acted as Coffin's ad-hoc office and tossed a Mr. Big rapper into the eats and treats trash barrel. She indelicately licked the last of the chocolate from her teeth, then addressed the tie-wearing interloper. Listen, I don't mean to stick my cock in your eye, but you ain't been welcome since the first time I laid my beady fucking peepers on your skeevy-ow. Back when you were still hanging out with that hip-no-chaddy cannibal bitch. Why don't you go searching under another mushroom for your fucking cookie-making elves? Before the rejoined could pull on a smirk and attempt to parlay his lemons into some sort of unwanted lemonade, a red grand Cherokee bounced roughly over the curb. Its tires held a brief shouting match with the pavement, then the vehicle came to a full stop, directly in front of the trio. The nearest window slid down. "I'm late, I'm sorry," said the reckless driver, a man who appeared to be in his mid-forties. "Mom didn't call me till just now, but he's been dead since this morning!" "Who died?" asked Bunny. His twin replied Will, standing. As they piled in and pulled onto the roadway, coffin caught sight of the hustler jotting down the SUV's license plate numbers. He knew he had no time to do anything about it. The house that was their destination stood along a shady lane on the west side of the city. Rory McGillivray's body, boxed and besuted, was set up on display in the dapper front parlor. "It's my mom's place," explained Alistair, the surviving brother. The man was having difficulty moving his gaze away from the dead face that was his mirror image, but a shove from Will coaxed him to comforting his keening mother. "So," Bunny said, once the client was out of your shot. "What are we doing?" "Well," replied Coffin, digging the plastic container he demanded they stop to purchase out of its plastic bag. Rory, over there, and Alistair, too, actually, have death insurance. A few years ago, I was paid handsomely to deal with their superstitions. Frankly, I have my doubts, but they've got a family tradition, from when they were still roaming the Scottish Highlands, that, well, when they die, this big cat comes around to try and steal their soul, unless it's distracted. "Jesus! I ain't ever had a cat I've been able to tell to do shit!" As she spoke, the duo retreated back into the entrance hall. "Me, either. That's why I've got a fistful of catnip." With consistent generosity, Will began to spread plant matter over the carpet. "You're just gonna chuck that everywhere?" Cleaning up afterwards isn't part of the service. Once this is done, we're going to hang around telling each other riddles. The thing loves 'em, and we'll try to answer one if it's presented. If nothing happens by midnight, we go home while Brother Al takes over. Then, we're here in the morning to let 'em finish the meet and greet stuff, and the process ends when they bury Rory tomorrow. During their self-guided tour, they'd managed to thoroughly dust the well-appointed ground floor, so Coffin turned his attention to the staircase that led upwards. The extra distance from the morning matriarchs wailing gave the small cluster of bedrooms a feeling of tranquility that was absent on the lower level. Will was tossing the last third of his supply about the hardwood when he noticed a woman sitting behind a partially closed door on a crisply-made bed. There was a child nursing in her breast. He gave an embarrassed smile and began to turn away, but was met with no reaction. His companion, who'd taken the opportunity to open a fresh mini bottle of Bacardi, also noticed the vacant countenance. "Dead guy's wife, I guess," said Bunny. "I have likely gone that soon, too, but I'd actually given a shit about Tim when I killed him." Approaching from yet another chamber, a stooped man with steel-gray hair entered the corridor. She's been saddened by recent events, but so have we all. Where he built me boy, not his bent, and I'll take care for we Johnny when we've got Rory in the ground. Saying nothing more, the old man hobbled to the steps and disappeared. Coffin cast into the glance in the widow's direction, but still meant no response. He sprinkled the last of his herbs in front of her entry, then shrugging left. Their first task complete, the shaman and the drunk took up seats at the rear of the viewing area and began to pose questions to which neither were allowed to answer. Bunny found it a very long ten hours. Coffin was awake and standing at the kitchen counter when the call came. Closing the leather-covered and yellow-paged notebook, noting the caller ID, he finished his milk and answered the phone. "Yeah? Did you see the kitty?" "You didn't fall asleep, did you?" "No, it's not that. You need to come right away. Someone needs to stand vigil. I'll be at the store in ten." Without waiting for a reply, allister hung up. Snatching up the remote, we'll increase the television's volume until Bunny snorted awake and lobbed a couch cushion at him. "What's your problem?" she asked. "Trouble back at the wake," he replied, zipping his leather jacket in preparation for meeting the night's cold. Once given a brief explanation, the police that wanted the house largely ignored the tired pair of hired mourners stationed again on their folding seats. They were at the end of the client's briefing. "The guy, who you say took the infant," said Coffin. "Was he wearing a cheap grey suit, two sizes too big?" "Did he smell like high karate?" "It was kind of too focused on the shotgun to think about smelling him," replied Allister. "But yeah, I guess." "How's your sister-in-law doing?" asked Bunny. "I can't be here," said the grieving twin. "I need to help look for Joan Robert." Dodging passed a woman in uniform, he exited the house. Rubbing at the side of her nose, Bunny broke the ensuing silence. "Who steals a widow's kid when a dad's body is even planted?" "That's f*cked up!" "That moron hustler, but it's not human. I've done some reading, and I'm fairly sure it's a suckling." "More voodoo?" "Mama was raising a demon, baby?" Coffin cleared his throat. "Not intentionally. These folks all seemed to believe the woman was genuine, so there was probably a real pregnancy." The thing must have murdered the real son pretty early on, and replaced it, maybe even while they were still at the hospital. Hearts tell the difference when they're so fresh, especially when it's constantly feeding. I wonder if it had anything to do with Rory's accident. Pops might have realized he was raising a kookoo child. "For a while, we'll shoot at a thumbnail and listen to the chatter of the passing cops." "What do we do?" Bunny asked, after rattling off five open-ended puzzlers into the empty air. Once the idiotic fast-talkers found, I knew of a nunnery of sorts, up north, and they can handle junior. Since Alistair's buggered off, we need to stay here, and ensure Rory makes it through to the other side. I had given these people their money back, and my strengths are mostly in dealing with the dead. I do, however, know of a guy who specializes in handling the living. ♪♪ 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. ♪♪ ♪ Sunday is gloomy, my hours are stumbling ♪ ♪ Here is the shadows I live with are stumbling ♪ ♪♪