Part 1 of 1
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Tonight, we bring you an auditory tale of crime and injury.
The Skinner Co. Network
161 - Unhead Of, Part 1 of 1
[music] Welcome to Flashpulp, episode 160. Tonight, we present Unheard of, part one of one. [music] This week's episodes are brought to you by The Walker Journals. Deadmen tell no tales. They just moan, constantly. Find out how to deal with it at youtube.com/walkersonbysurviver. [music] Sunday is gloomy, my hours are stumbled. Here is the shadows I lived with all of my love. [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 bring you an auditory tale of crime and injury. Unheard of, part one of one, written by J.R.D. Skinner, art and narration by Opoponax, and audio produced by Jessica May. [music] The Denny's lunch service had been rolling along smoothly, until the waitress with a name tag declaring "Genny" dropped her double order of "moons over my hanny." She couldn't really be blamed, however, as she'd caught a premature glimpse of the stubby shotgun beneath the code of the restaurant's latest customer. Or, assumed customer, as the whiskey-smelling arrival, had no intention of asking about the soup of the day. In truth, Brian Stokes wasn't entirely sure what he'd come for. He told himself repeatedly it was robbery, but the liquor seemed to speak of something different. Morgan Shaw, a slight blonde sitting in a booth facing the entrance, was having an interesting day. The previous afternoon she'd been asked to come down to the restaurant by a reporter, Terence Herrera, who was interested in discussing her recent discharge from the military. She was pleased to discover Terence was quite a nice fellow, and, although they technically completed the interview, she'd decided to stay and finish her pancakes while conversing on Stella Ramos, the woman who'd referred him to her story, and a scientist she'd met in an acoustic research lab she'd visited upon her return from overseas. It was the fact that she would have already gone if she'd stuck to her original plan that first came to mind when Stokes exposed his weapon. She grabbed for her cell phone. "All eyes on me," said the gunman. He was quick to hone in on Morgan's busy thumbs, but before he could make anything of it, she dropped the device. "We're all gonna be friends now, because you're all gonna listen to me. First off, you there," he pointed towards Grayshire to Jenny. "Close the blinds," the woman moved with a speed her Sunday customers scarcely could believe she had. The commands continued. "Everyone away from the windows. Get over on the far side of the booths and sit on the floor. You two, back in the kitchen. Come out here, or I'll go in there." He cleared his throat. "Then, uh, well, it's out. I'll be passing around a bag shortly." The majority of the patrons slid along their benches in compliance, but Morgan sat still. Terence's hands flitted in an urgent blur. "Get away from the glass, or I'll throw you through it," screamed Stokes, his firearm shaking involuntarily. "She can't hear you. She's deaf," said the reporter, keeping his tone flat. His busy digits completed the swoops and dips of the signed message, and the woman was quick to pick up her purse. They were the last of the parade to find seating on the harsh-patterned carpet. Seven patrol cars had been deployed on the road that day, initiating an early spring police effort to bring down traffic speeds on the major thoroughfares. They'd spent their morning pulling over tardy churchgoers, but now, the spat of panicked text messages, which emanated from the beleaguered establishment, were met with an already mobile response. The converging sirens made the situation apparent well before the would-be thief had even cleared the register. Despite his chain of expletives, Stokes smiled. "Well, guess that's it." The full clarity of forty ounces of whiskey and a life wasted had finally struck him. The bell rang behind the welcome desk, and he made short work of ripping its cord from the wall. "I ain't leaving here. The second they opened the door, I'm starting shooting. They're gonna have to drag our bodies out." He ratcheted the gun and began to pace. "Just give me an excuse to use this thing. Any excuse." He muttered, with increasing agitation, as he stalked the empty aisles of seating. Terence silently indicated to Morgan that everything would be okay, her only reply was a frown. The clock counted off seconds, then minutes, as the coward worked at his courage. While Stokes moved, he sampled cooling bacon and melting ice cream from the abandoned plates. With the sirens off, the only noises in the room were muffled weeping and his groaning ramble. Then the base started. At first it seemed like nothing more than the rowdy result of exuberant youth, but it soon became apparent that it was no passing traffic. With the blinds drawn, the source remained unclear, even as it seemed a scrape between the scattered vehicular barriers and cease motion in front of the handicap-only parking, closer to the building than the septuplit of cruisers. The floor began to vibrate with a rhythm only a smattering of the hostages recognized, but the former lieutenant was one of the few. Her rant became a furious storm, and the stir caught the reluctant suicide's attention. "I think she recognizes the song. She calls it, uh, stress?" shouted the newspaperman. "I thought you said she was deaf. What in the sweet, sweet tears of the weeping baby Jesus could she possibly know about it?" She's asking if the car that just pulled up is a red 1967 Ford Fairlane. Replied terence. Stokes risked pulling back a snatch of blind. "It's red, yeah." Looks old. "The hell?" Morgan's signals had become frantic, but repetitive. "Damn it!" said the drunk. "What is she saying?" The reporter glanced at the expectant face of the teary ten-year-old, not a foot away. "Uh, poop, poop, poop?" As the music hit a lull, a car door slammed. Stella Ramos' fists were full. In her left was a hard hat with built-in goggles near protectors. In her right was a box which the officers watching her movements immediately misidentified as a cat carrier. When she was a girl, Stella had been known for overreacting. She found little acceptance amongst the millworker's children of the small town of Hattiesburg, and she'd clung desperately to those few she'd had befriended. At the age of twelve, she'd been involved in a schoolyard fight with five kids of similar age. At twelve, she'd been involved in a schoolyard fight with five kids of similar age. One, a girl named Amanda Darr, who'd she thought of as a compatriot, had turned on her during the chance of "fella." When the lone female amongst the aggressors had started punching, the rest of the mob had been quick to join in. All involved had been suspended for a week, but it was only Stella who'd avoided the rough mercy of the school nurse's iodine. Her fury had allowed none closer than the reach of her fist or foot. It was the same tenacity, and need to prove herself, that had driven her to her physics PhD. She'd been at work when she'd received the text message, a simple cry for help that said only "men with gun in restaurant." It had been all the summons she'd required. Ignoring the warning shouts at the officers behind her, she put on the helmet. The song had been a favorite of Morgan's while on patrol, although she knew it more recently only through the resonance that shook the chassis of the car. The pair had still spent many hours sharing the reverberating memory as they'd displaced the dust of country-back roads hand in hand. She aimed the curved dish that projected from the face of the beige box, the prototype result of an intensive nine months funded by the American government under the name of Project Mosai, at the single eye that tracked her movement from behind the blinds. Stokes, in response, claimed it as his moment of truth. As the rising gun barrel became visible between the green slats of the window shades, Stella flicked the cat carrier's sole switch. There was a brief sound as if an electronic kitten had sneezed, then the obscuring pane of glass evaporated. Behind the dispatched window, the intended killer's eardrums followed suit, and he fell, thrust into unconsciousness by the sonic laser's trauma. After two lengthy legal trials, his permanent hearing and Stella's employment were the only casualties of the day. Flashpulp is presented by http colon slash slash skinner.fm. The audio and text formats of Flashpulp are released under the Canadian Creative Commons attribution non-commercial 2.5 license. [Music]