Part 1 of 2
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Tonight, Sgt. Smith relates some of his history with Capital City’s red-light district.
The Skinner Co. Network
173 - Sgt. Smith and The Family Legend, Part 1 of 2
[music] Welcome to FlashPulp, episode 173. Tonight, we present Sergeant Smith and the Family Legend, Part 1 of 2. This week's episodes are brought to you by the Geek Out with Mainframe podcast. This is Richard Green, aka Mainframe of the Geek Out with Mainframe podcast. That can be found at GeekOutWithMainframe.com. With hundreds of Geek Interview podcasts, I have one of them. Interviews have included people such as Michael Plastit, Gerald Axelrod, P.C. Herring, J.R. Murdock, Chris John Ellis, Mark, the Encafnated One Killfall, Paul E. Cooley, and Nathan Lowell with more to come in 2011. So come to GeekOutWithMainframe.com, where our Geek Flag always flies high. [music] [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, Sergeant Smith relates some of his history with capital cities, Red Light District. Sergeant Smith and the Family Legend, Part 1 of 2, written by J.R.D. Skinner, Art and narration by Opoponax, and audio produced by Jessica Mack. [music] [music] [music] [music] [music] My dearest Mulligan. Do you remember, when you were twelve, setting up that exhibit in your backyard pup tent? I still can't believe you managed to sucker so many of the neighborhood kids out of their dimes. Just to see the upper portion of a nudie picture, you'd badly taped on top of the rear portion of a national geographic photo of a salmon. Honestly, I swear Munchy Watkins only said he believed it, so he could keep coming back for another look at poor bisected Betty Page. Anyhow, I guess it comes to mind because of that story I was promising to tell you. Let's see, it was 1983, and I was downtown, keeping an eye on a lady rental joint. There came a tap on my window. Frankly, it was cold outside, so I wasn't terribly excited about having to roll it down. "Hello, sir," said the burly-looking lamp-jaw in a tweed jacket who'd done the knocking. With gaping mouth, I indicated my lack of tongue. "Well, sir," he said, "politus man in capital cities, as far as I could tell. I have good news, and I have bad news." I raised a eyebrow. The bad news is that I'm an undercover policeman, and that's a cat house over there. He pointed at my establishment of interest. "I'm afraid you've fallen under suspicion, and I'm gonna have to take you in." An unsettled frown came to my face. As you know, it's tough to make an impersonation charge stick when they aren't all gussied up in a uniform for their mugshot. "Well, now," he continued, "you seem like a nice enough fellow, and I'm sure you've learned your lesson about hanging around a place of such ill-repute. For a hundred bucks I'll let it slide, and so long as I don't catch you in these parts again, you'll keep your proximity to such a nasty sight off your record." Shrugging, I reached into my back pocket. Now, I should mention at this point that, although he didn't recognize me, I was well aware of the whole sweet family. Grandpa was actually a bit of a legend. He'd spent most of the 20s running the hydrophobia scam. Essentially, he would tell people their dog had bitten him and given him rabies. Don't know if it's true, but I heard that sometimes he'd even go so far as to run a little extra froth down his chin to sell the idea. Sounds a bit ridiculous, but most people would pony up when he'd threaten a lawsuit than demand compensation. One of the reasons he was so remembered, though, was that he was caught out when an old woman, deeply in love with her poodle, gave his plums a taste of her Mary Jane's for implying that little cocoa was anything less than perfect. He confessed to a passing patrolman begging to get her off of him. Papa Sweet, his son, stuck mostly to parking-cons. He'd charge folks for an entrance into formerly free lots. Claiming management had changed and that he'd been instructed to collect fees. Then he'd book it. If he was really lucky, he'd do so in some poor fool's car after they'd mistaken him as a valet. It was that last part that was his downfall. He got pulled in when a member of the local thuggery, looking to drop a hot car, gave him the keys. Little did Papa know the recently wiped down Borod Buggy was hauling the remains of another goon in the trunk. He'd made it three blocks in his twice stolen Buick before a broken tail light and a persistent traffic cop tripped him up. Anyhow, there I was, ignoring the badge in my pocket. I fumbled around, then flashed Papa's son, Bobbie Sweet, part-time grifter and full-time jackass. The universal sign for "Uh-oh, I've misplaced something important." Popping open the glove compartment, I shuffled through the sandwich wrappers within. Then I turned my attention to the floor, spooning my hands under the seat. Finally, I gave a long look at the battered den of iniquity. My eyes widened. Digging up a pencil, I jottered note out on some of the trash paper. Officer, I have to confess, I must have accidentally left my cash inside. Can you retrieve it for me, please? I don't want further trouble. The tempting allure of my misplaced pocketbook was obviously dancing in his head, but he was professional enough to give me a hard look for suggesting such a thing. Indicated that I had something more, he returned the note, and I added, "I'll make it worth the extra effort." That was all it took, off he went, trotting across the street. I was waiting at the door as he exited, his face red, and his mouth scowling. Then I busted him for frequenting a brothel. See you Sunday, dead. Flashpulp is presented by http colon slash slash Skinner dot FM. The audio and text formats of Flashpulp are released under the Canadian Creative Commons attribution non-commercial 2.5 license. [Music]