Part One Of One
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This evening we follow Mulligan Smith as he navigates the tangled streets of Capital City, in an attempt to deliver a passenger.
The Skinner Co. Network
020 - Mulligan Smith and The Long Ride, Part 1 of 1
[Music] Welcome to FlashPulp episode 20. Tonight's story, Mulligan Smith and the Long Ride are one of one. [Music] This episode is brought to you by FlashPulp on iTunes. If Steve Jobs didn't think FlashPulp was fantastic, would he allow it to be listed in iTunes? We don't think so. Find FlashPulp on iTunes via the in-program search or try the link at Skinner.fm. Remember, Steve Jobs may have implied it was a good idea. [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. This evening we follow Mulligan Smith as he navigates the tangled streets of Capital City in an attempt to deliver a passenger. Mulligan Smith and the Long Ride, part one of one. Written by J.R.D. Skinner, Art Inerration by Opoponax, an audio produced by Jessica Mann. [Music] The Tercelle was crowded at the best of times. A garage sales worth of randomness spread across the baby blue back seats. Smith and the girl had spent 10 minutes in animated discussion at the Bright Lulit menu, but it was only once they'd breached the window itself that Mulligan realized the drink holders were already occupied by a pair of abandoned coffees. As the high school girl working the register watched on, passenger and driver both broke into a flurry of nervous activity. The PI, craning to check the back seats cup holder. The woman attempting to roll down her window by hand in an effort to eject the old drinks. She was having difficulty, however, and a giggle escaped her lips even as her frown deepened. She switched hands, but she overcompensated, and another tug snapped the black and chrome crank at its base. The sound interrupted Mulligan, who'd been explaining that the window had long ceased to function properly. His passenger started to cry then, dangling the wreckage from her calloused fingers. Behind them the balding man and the white Buick SUV, aware only that his whopper was probably getting cold, hammered out two bleats of his horn. The girl with the headset lifted the tray of drinks and thrust them into the car. Mulligan decided to simply leave the trash cups on the steel sill, except at the large paper bag with rapidly blooming grease spots, and knows the tercelle out of the drive-through lane, before halting between two yellow lines in the emptiest corner of the parking lot. He reached out his arm, attempting to encircle the woman, but the gear shift began to dig into his hip. She didn't seem to register his efforts anyhow, so he sank back, letting the engine idle. The radio gurgled at a respectfully low tone. As she regained her composure, her eyes wandered the dash. Mulligan, realizing he might finally be of some use, reached into the bag, pulling forth a sheath of brown napkins. The woman plucked the topmost from the pile, smearing tears and makeup into the blue and yellow logo. As she snorted loudly, he gently pulled the crank from her hand, tossing it amongst the runes on the rear bench. He also took a moment to rip the stapled receipt from the bag, partially tucking it under the pristine floor mat behind the passenger seat, surrounded by dozens of its cousins. Her tears were easing, and she raised an eyebrow at him. Even in her haste to enter the vehicle, she'd notice the collection. For tax purposes, all my on-the-job receipts go in the pile, and once a year I clean out the car. She nodded, still dabbing at the corner of her eyes. He reversed out of the lot then, drifting into the anonymity of late night traffic. The woman spent the journey with her eyes fixed on her window, inspecting each passing car in pedestrian, the city slid by, offices, sidewalks, bus stops, apartment buildings, townhouses. Eventually they found themselves maneuvering the twisted streets of a suburb. The car finally came to a stop in front of a large two-story house. Its porch entrance set well back, a trim line of hedges providing privacy from the street. An array of stark white bulbs lit the grass like the noonday sun. The woman stepped from the car, bending together her small cloth bag. She attempted to speak, but all that came out was thick. Instead, she unthinkingly extended her right hand to Mulligan, who gently took it before she could realize and pull away. After a long moment, the heavy-grade door that front of the house swung open. A large woman with a precise haircut stepping out onto the porch and eyeing the pair as she lit a smoke. Mulligan let go. The waiting for you. Beth is great. He motioned towards the interloper. It'll be okay. Call me tomorrow and let me know how you're settling in. His client stood, cradling her wrist. As she hobbled along the stone-paved path, the fresh cast reflected the yard's harsh light. 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]