Part 1 of 1
Read the full text at http://flashpulp.com
Tonight we introduce The Achievers.
The Skinner Co. Network
163 - Enter The Achievers, Part 1 of 1
[Music] Welcome to FlashPulp, episode 163. Tonight, we present Enter the Achievers, Part 1 of 1. [Music] This episode is brought to you by MT Starkey Short Stories. It's for your own good. Search for it on Facebook or direct your browser to http/tinyurl.com/2blm6cb. [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, we introduce The Achievers. Enter the Achievers, Part 1 of 1. Written by J.R.D. Skinner, Art and Narration Biopoponix, an audio produced by Jessica May. [Music] The bungalow at 253 Oaks Boulevard had become a quiet war zone. The grievances leading to the conflict were long forgotten. But the date marking the commencement of open hostilities was generally agreed upon. The 13th of March, the year previous. On that date, Mr. and Mrs. Pope's silk wedding anniversary, every piece of ceramic dishware, functional and decorative had been shattered. It was a four-hour blowout that alienated the neighbors on either side and which required an extensive conversation on the rear bench of a police cruiser to halt. For eight months, the only shots taken were verbal, but in November, as a film of snow clung to the skewed roof tiles, collateral damage was beginning to show. Bertie Pope, 16 and President of her high school trivia club, was in the middle of an uncharacteristic throwdown. The second time in her memory that she'd raised her voice to her parents, despite the regular heartbreak of their continued arguments. She'd encountered a dispute in progress as she'd entered, and, dropping her backpack, she'd let her bottled frustration vent. "Won't you both shut it?" she'd shouted. "Try being nice to each other for, like, ten minutes!" For a beat, she'd received a satisfying silence. But then Velma Pope, her mother, had finished formulating her retort. "You want quiet? Just wait a second, your dad'll be at the door and back to work. Then it'll be just you mean quiet." "Don't forget the sound of your furious wine chugging," replied Bill, Bertie's father. He leaned into the teen, kissing her on the cheek. "Anyhow, sorry, baby, but I've got a backlog of paperwork that..." The outside door folded itself neatly, rocketed over the filthy beige mat, intended to capture the brunt of the dirt infiltrating the home, and slammed into the fake wood pattern of the coke closet's sliding doors. "Way here!" announced the pair of suddenly revealed men standing on the stoop. They dropped their homemade battering ram. The duo were dressed identically. Cheap black suits, the size too large, black leather gloves, and rubber masks intended to portray the likeness of Lemmy, founder of the metal band Motorhead. For a brief second, the twins cocked their arms at their sides, achieving the classic Peter Pan pose. "Oh, fuck!" said Bertie. "It's the achievers!" "Hello, Jello!" they replied in unison. None of the popes believed the intruder's Australian accents to be genuine. The leftmost retrieved a straight razor from his right pocket and approached Belma. The rightmost rushed Bill, clobbering his jaw with a sharp jab. The pudgy office dweller lost his footing and went over backwards, even as his wife was grabbed by her assailant. The blade flashed once, then returned to its slotted handle. As her wildly flailing, but only mildly lacerated palm left a panicky spray of blood across every nearby surface, the invader adjusted his grip and closed his gloved fingers on her hair. Demonstrating the stun gun clearly before placing it against the base of her neck, he ushered her from the house, then through her bodily into the rear of a black band parked out front. He locked the double doors. With a well-measured kick to Bill's ribs, his partner followed, snatching up the hefty ram, he jogged towards his getaway, and as the vehicle peeled from the curb, the passenger-side kidnapper rolled down his window and waved to slack-jawed Bertie and her breathless father, who'd managed to stumble onto the front yard before toppling onto the uncut grass. Then they were gone. Before Bertie could locate a cordless extension and dial for assistance, sirens filled the air. A patrol car stopped short in the recently evacuated street space. "Man," said the first officer, takes it, "we got a call saying that a forty-ish balding man had been seen dragging his wife from the residence." The officer, whose tag indicated his name was Bolikowski, had discontinued paying any heed to his own words, as he continued talking solely to cover the awkwardness of spotting the suspect in question, weeping openly on the front lawn in a considerably disheveled state. With a series of sharp gestures, his partner indicated they ought to approach and detain the whaler. Although Bill would be released after twelve hours of questioning, it was under the strongest of suggestions that he remained close at hand. Bertie had confessed immediately. She hadn't expected it would actually happen. The achievers were a rumor, a myth transmitted amongst the damaged egos and hopeless lives of the underbelly of Internet geekery. No one really knew who were behind the group. In truth, only the conspiracy pro and believed they existed, but the story told was that leaving a sufficiently tear-jerking request in a public space and containing ample usage of the achievers' moniker would attract their attention. In a moment of weakness, on a particularly wretched October evening, Bertie had done just that, misusing a form dedicated to the films of Akira Kurosawa to lay out every barbe she'd been forced to bear. The detectives had listened to the tale patiently, then dismissed the girl and her explanation. Despite their obvious suspicions, the wreckage and blood were too little evidence to stand against the bizarre story told by both father and daughter. Once passed, and the local press having little else to feed on, used much ink in implying Bill's involvement in a homicide. The knowing looks of his co-workers, combined with the constant anxiety that the achievers might suddenly reappear at any moment, drove him to drain his vacation time and apply for stress leave. Instead, Michael, from management, provided a very reasonable severance package and an apology. Bill's time at home found him a changed man. Maintaining the house's condition became a secondary focus, only to spending time with Bertie, who he now feared might disappear at any moment. The pair spent most meals watching recorded episodes of Jeopardy, and most evenings exploring their shared love of excessively complicated board games. Six months later, as Bill greeted his daughter upon her return from her first school dance, the van reappeared. "Hello, jello!" said the masked man, hanging from the passenger window. The vehicle's rear swung open, and a blindfolded woman stumbled onto the pavement. "Mom!" shouted Bertie. Before she'd close the distance, the achievers were gone again. As her daughter led the still blinking velma into the house and onto the couch, Bill was so pleased to see her return, he offered her a drink. "No, I don't do that anymore. I mean, I can't promise I'll always be perfect. But the last thing I want is for them to, she took a moment to collect herself." I've spent the last, however long, in a 20 by 20 room with a toilet, an exercise bike, and a cupboard full of arts and craft supplies. They delivered three nutritional, if not particularly well-cooked meals a day. At first I painted, mostly reproductions of liquor bottle labels. Then I started writing you both letters, brambling apologies. After a while I realized I really enjoyed the process, so I wrote a novel. All three closely huddled were in tears. "They didn't let me keep any of it," she continued, "but it was only my first try. The next one will be even better." Her account of the incident made for a brisk selling book, and the accompanying tour was the first family trip the popes had had in years. 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]