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Tonight, Will Coffin, urban shaman, takes his roommate to a bar of ill repute, to meet a man with a volatile history.
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139 - Coffin: Condolences, Part 1 of 1
(upbeat music) - Welcome to FlashPulp episode 139. Tonight, we present Coffin Condolences, part one of one. This week's episodes are brought to you by Netty Bites. Wake up, go to work, work, come home, eat dinner, rot your brain out, go to bed, lather, rinse, repeat. Are you tired of an old home drum life? Tired of things that just weigh you down and depress you? And you'd rather just focus on things that are awesome. Tune into Netty Bites, find out what's awesome. Netty Bites, nimlas.org/blog. (upbeat music) (gentle music) FlashPulp is an experiment in broadcasting fresh pulp stories in the modern age. Three to 10 minutes of fiction brought to you Monday, Wednesday, and Friday evenings. Tonight, Will Coffin, Urban Shaman, takes his roommate to a bar of ill-repute to meet a man with a volatile history. Coffin Condolences, part one of one. Written by J.R.D. Skinner, Art and Narration Biopoponax, an audio produced by Jessica May. (gentle music) Three weeks after she'd moved in, Will Coffin boarded a city bus with his perennially drunk roommate, Bunny, and escorted her to the only bar he frequented, Dorsets. As the behemoth lost momentum and opened to discourage them at their location, Will chose his words carefully. "I need you to be very quiet," he said. "Huh?" she replied. Bunny had spent most of the trip occupied with a crossword she'd dug out of some previous passenger's discarded newspaper. And while her eyes still roved between the clues in the playing area, Coffin suspected the majority of the available boxes were in little danger of being solved. He tried again. We're here to meet an old fella. He's excitable, and you need to remain very still. Does he shit magic like the rest of your friends? He's not a friend, he's a client, he replied. A sad man, a suicidal fixed. I need you to behave, please. The spidery tracks left by a drink which ran across Bunny's cheeks, flushed with annoyance. Why did you bring me if I'm just gonna be pain in your ass? Will touched his thumb to his throat and scratched. If I had left you with the apartment, after a bit of vodka, you'd accidentally rip a hole between our dimension and one of infinite terror, at which point everyone's eyes would be eaten by giant moths as their feet were being devoured by the burrowing of worms. Holy fuck, is that even possible? Bunny asked, her puzzle forgotten. Maybe, maybe not. He coughed, then added, don't touch my stuff. His line face made it difficult to tell if he was smirking. The short walk brought them to the red brick ficade of dorsets. Inside was a darkened main room with tables scattered about its center and booths sliding through the walls. The final wall, opposite the door, was dominated by a long run of oak. Behind the bar stood an array of cheap liquor bottles, each in a varying stage of consumption, and dorset, the owner, as squat as his building. Will waved to the proprietor as he entered, and the man raised a hand in reply. Coffin had never seen the place with the lights up, and he thought it was probably to his benefit. Smoking had been banned from the interior for years, but the tavern had retained the scent of the thousands of ghostly cigarettes who'd met their end there. He approached an already occupied booth, and urged his companion to sit before scooting onto the bench after her. The occupant, an aging gent with short gray hair and a sharp face, nodded at Coffin's arrival, and the two exchanged pleasantries in a tongue beyond Bunny's comprehension. Despite the language barrier, she could tell that whatever good humor Will had entered with was soon forgotten. The client swallowed a mouthful of beer, and locked eyes with Bunny. When I was but a boy, my mother made me carry about a portion of my afterbirth, under my left arm. Do you know what that does to a person? Gives him a wicked stench? I don't know, she replied, no. I am a sexed, your became one at least. A Slavic tradition. He finished his drink and signaled dorset at his station. I am immortal, well, nearly. The list of items which might kill me is short. In my youth, years ago, I fought in wars. I was a man of bravery and recognition. Or so I thought. At the age of 40, although I looked 20 at the time, I charged a cannon battery with a broken bladed dagger and killed all whose stay still long enough. I was drunk at the time, but I felt any of the dead were beyond 19. The old man rolled his cup along its bottom edge, shadowing the moist circle of condensation that marked its placement. He continued, "What is bravery when no normal blade or bullet can cause you harm?" Bunny blinked. "She's not," began Will, only to be interrupted. "I apologize. My name is Colonel Andrew Corda. I was not expecting such lovely company at my funeral, but I appreciate any friend of Mr. Cofins. Kind of a shitty location for a wake. Who died?" asked Bunny, brushing back a tangled strand of hair. "I feel the rest of the guests have yet to arrive. Your friend, he is helping me to do so." "Why?" she pressed. "It pays well," muttered Coffin. "I have been here over 400 years. I am tired," said the Thext. Dorset deposited another chilled serving, then stood waiting as the old man retrieved a $5 bill from his ratty suit jacket. To ease his search, Corda removed a pristine flintlock pistol from his pocket and set it down on the table. Bunny's eyes moved from the weapon to the establishment's owner and back again, but the barkeep did nothing but wait patiently for his due. We'll use the opportunity to return to business. It arrived just yesterday. He set a glass sphere the width of a nickel upon the table. As Dorset returned to his position to deal with the pressing demands of a blonde man in a plaid coat, "Andrick, I had the ball." "It does not seem like much," he said. "I have been given every reassurance that it will survive being fired. Just don't overpower your pistol," replied Coffin. The ancient soldier picked up the bullet that would be the instrument of his destruction and watched Bunny's warped shape through its curved surface. "400 years is a long f***ing time," she said. "Surely there's something worth going on for." We'll turn to her then. His face was impassive, but his eyes worked hard to strangle her words. Corda also looked the woman over, but a different sort of passion seemed to enter his gaze. "Well," said Coffin, "Miss Davis's hands are not entirely unfamiliar with killing either. Her former husband can attest to that." The news did little to negate the embers stoking in the would-be suicide psyche. He smiled. We'll pushed on. "Why don't you tell her about what you did during the mid-80s?" Whatever aspirations had awoken in the colonel were snuffed. It was a different war, a different place. The chemicals of South America were rural and beautiful. "I do not know how many died so that I might powder in my moles," Corda shrugged. "Car bombs are quite a bit more effective when you can simply drive them into the offending parties living room, look them in the eye, weave, and then death will need to trigger." There was a moment of silence. "Anyhow," Coffin said, standing, "the rest of your mourners will be here shortly. So we'll pay our respects and get moving along. I have your payment and you have my thanks." Then condolences. We'll exchange to handshake with the dying man, then departed with Bunny in tow. (dramatic music) 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. (dramatic music) (dramatic music) (dramatic music) (dramatic music)