Part 1 of 1
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Tonight, Will Coffin, urban shaman, and his tipsy roommate, Bunny Davis, receive reports regarding another practitioner of the occult arts.
The Skinner Co. Network
151 - Coffin: Zonbi, Part 1 of 1
[music] Welcome to FlashPulp, episode 151. Tonight, we present Coughan, Zombie, part one of one. [music] This week's episodes are brought to you by the Relic Radio Network. It was TV before TV was TV. Find out more at relicradio.com, research for Relic Radio in iTunes. [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, Will Coughan, Urban Shaman, and his tipsy roommate, Bunny Davis, received reports regarding another practitioner of the Occult Arts. Coughan, Zombie, part one of one. Written by J.R.D. Skinner, art and narration by Opoponax, and audio produced by Jessica May. "What the f*ck was that guy's deal?" asked Bunny, spitting a sunflower husk into the eats and treats trash barrel. "He never sleeps," replied Coughan. "Huh? The f*ck?" he asked me to do it. He's better off this way. Was he serious about the zombie? Yeah, I think so. He's generally pretty twitchy, but he looked especially rough today. The conversation had been a short one. Apparently the insomniac had been wandering about in the south end of town in the pre-dawn hours when he'd come across a member of the undead. Unsure of how to proceed, the sleepless man had done the only reasonable thing, moved directly away as quickly as possible. The idea of informing Will had come the next morning. Rising from the bench that made up his place of business, Coughan sauntered to the bus stop. His crude-mouthed roommate trailed behind. It was a poor time of day to push a vehicle through the city's congested arteries. Fifteen minutes into the ride, having replenished her fluid levels from a water bottle full of vodka, Bunny once again took up the subject. So, uh, what are we expecting? Is it anything like Return of the Living Dead? Tim, you sell love that f*cking movie. But I need a chunk bitten out of my ass like I need dental work by Godzilla. Well, it's not really. His sentence was cut short by the look in his companion's eyes. What? I... if all this other sh*t is real. If I got to deal with ghosts and f*cking zombies, is Godzilla real too? Before responding, Coughan forcefully rubbed his eye with the palm of his hand. No. He expelled a lungful of air through his nostrils. There are varieties of zombies. It's a bit of an umbrella term. I won't know what exactly we're dealing with until we arrive, but I'm guessing we're not about to encounter a bunch of undead 1980s-style punk rockers. Don't be a smart ass. I'm just saying we need to wait and see. Finding the wandering corpse in question was a simple enough matter, as Bunny wasn't interested in asking after the lion-faced man who spoke only French to Coughan and who consistently pointed him towards a particular paint-flected townhouse. As they approached, she noticed that all the window screens had been ripped out, but their frames left in place. To her mind, combined with the black curtains beyond, it gave the rental the impression of liddless eye sockets. Coughan thrust hard at the sharded edges of the plastic hole that was once a doorbell, and a grating buzz emanated from somewhere in the interior. Maybe his sleep in, suggested Bunny, after five minutes of wobbling back and forth on the creaking front step. Will had at the buzzer a second time, and his persistence brought results. From within came the sound of sliding chain lock. "Who you think you are?" the stranger's blonde hair clumped in dirty tangles, and he wore only baggy black shorts. His chest sported and raved tattoos, which Coughan busied himself studying. "This guy ain't dead," muttered Bunny. She reconsidered her flippancy, however, when her eyes adjusted to the patterns of black ink woven over the man. "Aw, shit! Is he some sort of voodoo, Master?" "Be gone," the door holder replied. The gap began to close. "I'm Coughan. Will brush just thumb against the stubble at his chin. Your fake Haitian accent is terrible. Stop it. Show me the zombie." "Oh, Coughan? Like, from the other side of town?" "Yes." "And who were you?" "They call me, um, Le Rua de la Mall." Will raised an eyebrow. "Seriously? Fine. I'll call you Roy. Show me Roy." His shoulders slumping, the self-crowned king of the dead, led them inside. The ground level was well maintained, but Bunny felt no remorse at tracking dirt of the plush carpet. She whistled when she saw the living room's massive television and the leather furniture it was surrounded by. The basement was another matter. Lying on a beaten brown couch, set flush with the far-sender block wall, was a tall man covered in grime. His eyes were open and fixed upon the exposed duck work that ran along the low roof. "Get up!" ordered Coughan, but the zombie seemed not to hear. "Holy f*cking fairy testicles!" said Bunny. She was unenthused by the odor of the place. "Okay, great. You've had the tour and get out," replied the home's owner. Coughan spoke directly to Bunny. "There's nothing magical about any of this. What we've got here is a social issue. This poser is convinced as Haitian neighbors that he's a bakar. Sorcerer," he pointed at the kept his occupant. "And this guy is getting the short end of the stick. He's convinced because they're convinced." "How you figure? Mr. Starry here looks pretty f*cking enchanted to me," replied Bunny. "Mostly the tattoos. Feels like there's a lot of these guys lately." Pseudomistics branded with badly translated Chinese characters and Germanic runes to look like they knew what they're doing. They catch wind of a few key ideas from someone who should know better than to talk to them. Then they set up shops scaring cash out if anyone gullible enough to believe them. Roy began to back slowly towards the wooden stairs that led to the first floor. Turning on him, Coughan cleared his throat. The counterfeit conjurer ceased his movement. A newer guy who used to travel with the Grateful Dead. He was mostly just a new ager, but he'd gotten a hold of a tool for work of an old wizard named Rousseau. Rousseau was a scribe back when written spells still worked, but he required a method of correcting his labors, as ink was tough to come by, especially when you were grinding it out of bite gizzards in three weeks worth of gathered herbs. In the end, his solution was to craft, well, will reached into his coat retrieving a short length of ornate brass with what appeared to be a glistening sponge upon its tip. This, it absorbed his errors. After he was done, he could just squeeze out the valuable ink and reuse it. Bunny shook her head. "I don't get it. I thought you said these unicorn molesters were playing pretend," she replied. "Blondie is, but the imitation ghoul believes it. He probably tried to resist at first, ask for help where he could, but most of these folks are from Hades' boondocks, only here to work a factory job for a few years so they can return with enough money to set up something decent at home. We're talking manual labors doing back-breaking work on 14-hour shifts, and for a lot of them, their faith is their strength, which includes the concept of the zombies. As for the other locals, I mean, look at them. There aren't a lot of people well-versed in French or Creole around here, and if this musty-stumbler approached you, you'd probably figure he was just a jabbering homeless guy. Jack someone up on hallucinatory drugs and hold them hostage for a few weeks in a world where everyone shuns them, and their mind goes a bit. He likely fought it, but now he believes. As they spoke, the man's face remained ever-blank. Bunny drained her tainted water bottle. "The f*ck we do, then," convinced him of something new. As I was saying, I got this fancy little stick from a dead head. He bartered for it for a little help with his lung cancer. I couldn't cure him, but, hmm, anyhow, when he wasn't playing guru, he made his money as a tattoo artist. Told me this thing was fantastic when he pooched his line work. Coffin waved the device across Roy's chest, and a large swath of inscription disappeared. Within seconds the illustrations were fully replaced with bare skin, and the material at the end of the short handle dripped with black liquid. Wheel turned, and was pleased to see he held the bewitchman's attention. "Séfini," said the shaman. "Alle." As if awakening from a long dream, the release stood, then approached the stairs with quickening steps. He was running by the time he disappeared from view. "Do you know how much getting all those hurt? Or how much it cost?" complained Roy. "Probably more than it's going to cost to get your carpets cleaned once I'm done purging my brush. Hope your landlord got a deposit." 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]