Part 1 of 1
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Tonight, Will Coffin, urban shaman, and his thirsty companion, Bunny Davis, find themselves locked in hand-to-hand combat with a civil servant.
Coffin's theme is Quinn's Song: A New Man, by Kevin MacLeod of http://incompetech.com
[Music] Welcome to FlashPulp episode 164. Tonight, we present Coughan. Siren, part one of one. [Music] This week's episodes are brought to you by the FlashPulp Facebook page. To join search in Facebook for FlashPulp, find the link at flashpulp.com or direct your browser to http colon slash slash bit.ly/cbkyv2. [Music] Sunday is gloomy, my hours are stumbled. Here is the shadows I live with are stumbled. [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, we'll Coughan, urban shaman, and his thirsty companion, Bunny Davis, find themselves locked in hand-to-hand combat with a civil servant. Coughan, Siren, part one of one. Written by J.R.D. Skinner. Art and narration by Opoponax, an audio produced by Jessica May. [Music] The two stories suburban the homes upper windows had shattered under the heat of the blaze. But those on the lower floor remained closed, except a single pane in the front living room which had been cracked against the vigor of the air conditioner, and now allowed an outlet for the black smoke column that blew outwards as if tainted steam from a roiling kettle. At the center of the throng, which had assembled to spectate the combustion, a steel-haired man held a weeping woman whose eyes peered constantly over his comforting shoulder, watching a lifetime of memories and knickknacks turned to kindling. On the crowds' furthest edge, however, Bunny Davis was engaged in a fistfight. Her whiskey habit had her at a disadvantage as far as accuracy or balance were concerned, but liquid bravery and a fast-moving mouth had kept her upright thus far. She took another swing at the firefighter, but again her punch slid along the clear plexigast visor with little effect. "Ah!" said Will, only four feet away, but entirely occupied with the stinging fury brought on by the can of mace he intercepted with his eyes. "You fucking pole-sliding truck rider! Just turn a fucking round and head back to your ghost-buster shack!" The woman behind the breathing mass responded with a strong right to the nose, which put Bunny over backwards and brought the smell of copper to her nostrils. Her impediments disposed of, the fire woman strode towards the burning structure, laid a boot to the front door, then entered. The onlookers cheered. Bunny, finding her feet, rubbed at her aching gin blossoms as she watched, a man unseen by the majority of the gathered, moved to the leftmost window on the second floor. With the flames framing his silhouette, he rubbed at his sharp cornered chin, then stretched his muscled shoulders with a languid roll. As his white t-shirt ignited, he began to strump his guitar. A week earlier, Coffin and his tipsy roommate had been loitering in front of the eats and treats, busied largely with ignoring the glaring sun and the uncomfortable bench. Bunny had located an abandoned newspaper and was filling the time remarking on random entries as she used the broadsheet as cover to move vodka from her pocket to her mouth, and back again. "Holy shit!" she said, sipping. "Looks like they're playing the original plan in the Apes downtown. I love that movie. Childhood Heston is the loudest fucking actor I've ever seen. Some bitch lands on a planet full of monkeys, and what's he do? Yells at him till they give him partial liberty." Or whatever, I mean, it's been a while. "But what then?" "Yells at him some more." "That's not quite how the film goes," replied Will. "Whatever." All I'm saying is the man was a goddamn genius. Coffin's attention, only marginally involved in the conversation, was on a white truck, an idle between a pair of the lots faded yellow lines. The vehicle had parked five minutes earlier, but a passenger had yet to emerge. "No one shows like Heston anymore," Bunny continued. "I blame Clint Eastwood." The pick-ups door swung open, and a squat woman stepped down from the running board. It was tough to tell her age, as she wore large black sunglasses which reminded Will of the visors occasionally worn by the blind, and the thick plastic left nothing but her furrowed cheeks as a clue. He guessed sixty. "I'm looking for Mr. Will Coffin," she said. "I've heard of him," replied Bunny. "Lazy bastard, that one." "Sorry," said Will. "Paint no mind to my, hmm, assistant. Too much sun, and too much cheap raspberry vodka." And she gets a little talkative. Something I can be of help with? Name's you for me a dump freeze. I'm a fire chaser out of the station of Maine Baseline. A paramedic friend of mine said I should talk to you. I, uh... A month ago, we were responding to a basement fire, and I heard this song. A simple thing, just an acoustic guitar and a strong voice. But it came floating over the heat, like a melody made of smoke. I'm hearing this tune over the crackle and pop, and I see this guy on the second floor. I lost it a bit, and pushed further inside than I should have. I caught myself just before running into the living room, where the floor was gone entirely. Scary thing about basement fires, you get down below ground level with no stairs, and you're basically standing in a barbecue pit. Anyhow, I was fine, but I was sure the fellow was a goner. Thing is, even once things were cleared, we didn't find anyone. She paused in her story, and Will stood, offering her his spot on the bench. Shaking her head, she pushed out of breath, then continued. I'm old for the work. If I didn't come so cheap and have the strength of an Alabama chain gang, I'd have been off the truck a long time ago. I didn't want to put in for a talk with the dog, as I figured they'd use it at the last straw. A couple of weeks later, though, we were dousing a garage over on Melville, and it hit a propane tank the homeowner had forgotten under a pile of newspapers he intended on recycling. Brilliant. Blue out the drywall, and his kitchen went up like a match. Now I'm way back at the truck at this point, and I hear it again. There was the same guy, 30-ish, and pretty, like a TV doctor. He was at the second floor window again, and he was singing. He was singing to me. I don't really know what happened. I kicked through the front door, which was relatively unscathed, and bolted upstairs. I stomped into a guest bedroom, and there he was. He smiled, then he said, "44 wheelchair." That's on the east end of town. What I didn't know was that things were pretty much under control on the ground floor. As soon as the danger was gone, so was he. I got my ass, chewed out something fierce for acting like such an idiot with nothing to show for it. "Not your fault, really," said Coffin. I've heard of your troubadour, died a decade and a half ago while writing a song for his wife in their bedroom. The story goes that the place burned down while she was off wrestling with his best friend. Now he serenades bystanders, then apparently burst responders from the interior of burning homes, hoping they'll join him inside. "Why does he do it?" asked you for me. "Is there a way to stop it?" "Well, spite partially, but I figure he's probably hoping one will go willingly." He's claimed a few lives, but I doubt they were inclined to hang around with him in the afterlife. So his desire for companionship goes unsatisfied. "Hmph, was a good-looking eternity to me," she replied. She adjusted her glasses and cleared her throat. Honestly, I guess I knew the answer all along. I live to help, and truth is, I'm getting old. If I don't die in my boot shortly, I'll end up accidentally doing so alone in my own bed. They had argued the point for seven days. Flashpulp is presented by HTTP colon slash slash Skinner dot FM. Audio and text formats of Flashpulp are released under the Canadian Creative Commons attribution non-commercial 2.5 license. [Music]
