Part 1 of 1
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Tonight, Sgt Smith finds himself nervously attending a social.
The Skinner Co. Network
086 - Sgt Smith and The Dish, Part 1 of 1
(upbeat music) Welcome to Flashpulp episode 86. Tonight, we present Sargent Smith and the Dish, part one of one. This week's episodes are brought to you by Flashpulp on iTunes. Play them all backwards and discover the truth behind the death of Paul McCartney. Find a link to Flashpulp's iTunes feed at Skinner.fm. Search for Flashpulp using the iTunes in-program search or point your browser at http bit.ly9z2eh0. ♪ One day through me in my hour is a number left ♪ ♪ Here is the shadows I live with a number left ♪ (upbeat 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, Sargent Smith finds himself nervously attending a social. Sargent Smith and the Dish, part one of one. Written by J.R.D. Skinner, art and narration by Opoponax, an audio produced by Jessica May. (upbeat music) Mulligan. Whatever I had reason to be nervous about my day, your mom, probably because of her Pennsylvania Dutch upbringing, always had the same solution, pie. There'd always be a slice on hand, often blueberry, my favorite, and she'd eat with me in the stillness of the morning as we sipped our tea and pretended like nothing was wrong. I remember having to take particular care at that breakfast as I was wearing my Sunday best. It was the only decent set of clothes I had at the time, beyond my uniform. Then, when I was done, she straightened my attire and told me to watch my tongue. She was a kidder that one. I knew what she meant, though. Your touch for subtlety didn't come from my side of the family. Anyhow, it was 1956 and after our morning ritual, I had to leave for a date. It wasn't long before the sun was burning my prematurely balding paint and I was fussing with my tie in the noonday heat. Around me, the picnic area was a wash in color. The loons had been fixed with ribbons to the edges of all the tables, green, red, and yellow streamers hung from the tree branches, and the loud dresses and Hawaiian shirts were out in full Saturday in the suburbs force. I don't think they would have set me up with the date if they thought I was actually going to meet her, but they were stretched pretty thin, which is probably why they sent a mute to a social event. Two card tables had been hauled onto the grass and pushed together to create a buffet area. As spokes came strolling in, they'd drop off a little something for the smorgasbord, then wander into the surrounding knots of familiar faces. It was a beautiful day, but when I think of it, I can't help thinking about the flies. I don't know what it was with that neighborhood, but it seemed to be swarming with those buzzing aggravations. I was standing at the edge of the crowd, trying not to look too interested in the red-faced old guy who'd been high-balling since I'd sidled in. His drinks had gotten him into berating two hand-holding teenagers when Beatrix arrived. She stepped from the car, her legs extending from her well-cut baby blue dress like an invitation to sin. As she collected up her goods, the mother of one of the teens stepped up to the tipsy codger in an attempt to explain that the young couple were promised to be married. All eyes were discreetly on them, and not the blonde, her hair piled high, who moved confidently from her car to the food table to lay out her covered bakeware. She was as much a stranger to the party as I was. When we were loaned together later, she told me she'd driven all morning just to be there. As the family drama played out to my left, my eyes stayed on the veiled dish, at least until a tall woman, her hair held back by a hanky, approached me to chat. I doubt her intentions were anything more than getting a better view of the burgeoning tussle between drunken galoot and defensive housewife. As she seemed a little interested in the fact that my lack of a tongue made it impossible for me to maintain my end of the gossipy conversation she eagerly began to recite, stopping only to sip at her wine glass. I don't recall anything of what she said. I mostly just remember the rock of tension growing in my belly, and the tickle of the occasional fly trying to seek shade under my shirt collar. Your mother would have known how to better handle the situation. She was always the social one. I watched the blonde set down her bakeware and pull back the simple dish towel she'd been using as a cover. I tried to move then, but I think the gossiping woman thought I was coming in close for an especially tantalizing bit of information. She grabbed my arm to steady herself. Two kids, I swear both of them wearing full boy scout uniforms stepped up to the table for some grub. The baby blue dress stood back, her eyes bright, and I tried again to make my way around the handkerchief woman, but she was caught up in her own story, laughing by then, and I couldn't shake her off. I hadn't been at the last party to observe the aftermath, but I'd seen the photos, the blood-filled vomit, the trashed cutlery spread across the lawn by the fleeing crowd, the weeping children, the glassy-eyed stare of Martin Nicholas, dead but still wearing a child's coned party hat. I pushed her. All eyes moved from those gathered around the teens to me. I jumped over the prone woman, and a fella and a tweed jacket stepped into my path. "Hey now," he said, grabbing and ripping my white Sunday shirt. I couldn't take the delay, so I pushed him over too. My objective, still holding her dish towel, had an epiphany regarding my intentions. She started running. I may have been the last resort, the bottom of the barrel only out there because we had 200 miles worth of suburban get-togethers to cover, but there had already been three unfortunates done in by Beatrix's Drano Casserole, and I wasn't going to be remembered as the guy who didn't move fast enough to save the ranks of Scout Troop 97. On my way by, I upended the table, sending jello and deviled eggs out over the lawn. She'd parked across the street, and I was lucky that a dinged Ford truck had pulled up too close behind her. While she was trying to reverse out, she bumped its fender, then panicking, she miscalculated the distance to the red Buick in front of her, and slammed into it with the full force of her jogging engine. I dragged her from the car then. Blood was running down her mouth from the nose she'd broken, rebounding off her steering wheel. By the looks I was getting from the crowd, you'd have thought I was the monster. I'd likely have taken a terrible beating from the tweet jacket who was briskly approaching to defend his manhood, but by then I had my badge out. I was going to sign for someone to call the police, but I could see a half dozen partygoers already streaking home to set the phone lines ablaze. Beatrix Johnson, Killer B. She never spent a day in prison. We didn't have lady serial killers back then. We just had troubled women, so she landed in a sanitarium. Still, an asylum then makes prison now look like a resort and spa. It was probably just as much a relief for me as it was for her, the day they found her hanging by her bed sheet. I still haven't had any casserole in over half a century though. I'll stick to pie. Dad. (dramatic music) (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. 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