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Tonight we present a tale about friendship and duty, writ large in the glow of a computer monitor.
The Skinner Co. Network
033 - Strangers In The Net, Part 1 of 1
[Music] Welcome to Flashpulp episode 33. Tonight's tale, Strangers in the Net, part one of one. [Music] This episode is brought to you by the Flashpulp page on Facebook. Do you realize what you're missing? No. No you do not. To join, search in Facebook for Flashpulp, find the link at Skinner.fm or direct your browser to http colon slash slash bit dot l y slash c b k y v 2. [Music] Sunday is gloomy, my hours are stumbled. Here is the shadows I live with are stumbled. [Music] Flashpulp is an experiment in broadcasting fresh pulp stories in the modern age. 400 to 600 words brought to you Monday, Wednesday and Friday evenings. Tonight, we present a tale about friendship and duty, writ large in the glow of a computer monitor. [Music] Strangers in the Net, part one of one. Written by JRD Skinner, art and narration by Opoponax and audio produced by Jessica May. [Music] March. It was the middle of the night, and Maria was groggily clicking at her digital crops, while doing her best to ignore the flu churning in her stomach. The red glare of a friend request appeared on her screen. She'd recently given in to adding strangers to her list, in a bid to make her gaming life simpler, and when the name Anthony Holderbrook appeared, she assumed it was someone looking for a neighbor. In her night quill haze, she clicked accept. May. She was at work board. The small airfield was dead. It was a rainy Tuesday, and most of the fields clientele were hobbyists too nervous to fly and slick weather. Her time was spent at the office's IKEA desk. She considered herself a little more than a glorified gas station attendant, but at least she had the receipt tracking PC to keep her entertained. In the last few months, she'd gone from casual game player to addict, her online empires ranging from matheosi to vast agricultural fiefdoms. With the clack of her fingers, she could raise an army to grow untold grapes, or share any counter sheep. Still, her newfound power had come at the expense of a cluttered friend's list, and she'd spent the afternoon attempting to cut those she considered dead weight. Her eyes once again hovered over Anthony's name. She couldn't recall him ever having sent an item, or in-game request. Her cursor hovered over remove, but she reconsidered, sliding over to his profile link. Anthony was an older man, close shaved and trim. Most of his pictures had him in front of fighter jets, or with his wife in their suburban backyard. A chat window popped up, her sister, back from Lake Tahoe, and in tears about husband Mike's constant complaining that the weekend would have been better spent in Vegas. Maria closed the browser, reaching for her phone. Early June. Maria's eyes happened upon his status message in her news feed. "We are Phubar. I'm sorry men. I love all of you." Anthony had changed his profile image to a professionally shot photo of him in uniform. Maria didn't know much about the military, but he certainly seemed to have a colorful chest full of medals and ribbons. As she snooped, a new update appeared. Mohole too went 20 miles deep. Everything is eggs. The smell of drama drew her to his personal page. She spent the following hour continuously hitting with fresh. Nothing changed. After her time, she became entangled in a barn raising. The next day, while negotiating her allegiances with a committee of digital ranchers, it struck her to check for updates. The older messages had been removed, replaced with, "Jin makes me talk too much." It was then that she decided to Google Hold a Brook, only to find the now familiar face staring back at her from old photo ops in Baghdad, from over the desk at a congressional hearing, from the deck of an aircraft carrier in the Atlantic. They were all captioned, four-star Air Force General Anthony Hold a Brook. Between harvests, she dug into his profile. The blandness of his six months of history convinced her it was real. Late June Maria had been checking his page hourly. Nothing more had slipped from his status messages, and many of her friends had tired of her constant weaving of conspiracy around every news article that mentioned him. Less than 40 minutes and we're all dead. The update hit her stomach like a stone. She started a letter to her mom, found she was taking too long, included her sister. Hitting send, she realized she should update her faithful lieutenants, the ones who would have to know now that she had been right. She began a new message, and, looking to copy and paste the status, she flipped back to the General's profile. It had updated. If you have access to an aircraft, take it up immediately. That is an order. Uno ab alto. It was like he had meant it just for her. Gary had given her a few lessons on getting into the air. She knew she could do it. She began to polish off her message. Mo, with too many goats. Hannah, with her need for everything to be pretty instead of functional. They'd spent many long days together. They'd served her well. They ought to know the end was coming. Her fingers blazed at the keys. Completing the dispatch, Maria logged out. The office began to buck and sway. She realized she had taken too long. Across the field, the bone-knotted carapace of Karwick, the Spider-God, thrust onto the shattered sky. 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 lessons. [MUSIC] [BLANK_AUDIO]