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To round off our week we have a tale a little longer than normal, a telling chapter in the checkered history of Mulligan Smith. In this evening's episode, the P.I. finds himself explaining transportation safety.
[Music] Welcome to Flashpulp episode 6. Tonight's story, Mulligan Smith in the trunk. [Music] Tonight's episode is brought to you by JustinBose.com. How many friends does the ad copywriter have with disused domain names they've registered and forgotten about? Let's find out. That's JustinBose.com. [Music] Flashpulp is an experiment in broadcasting fresh pulp stories in the modern age. 400 to 600 words brought to you Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. To round off our week, we have a tale a little longer than normal. A telling chapter in the Checco history of Mulligan Smith. In this evening's episode, the PI finds himself explaining transportation safety. Mulligan Smith in the trunk. Written by JRD Skinner, Art and Narration Biopoponax, an audio produced by Jessica May. "I don't ride in chunks," Mulligan said, laying one foot up on the rear bumper. Going for a ride in a trunk isn't like on TV. My dad started on the force at the tail end of the mob days, and if he got a couple of wobbly pops in him, one of the first stories he'd always come up with was how nasty it was to have to clean up after someone who'd gone for what he'd call a drive in the boot. I've only been shoved in a trunk once, and I only survived because the guy who did it wasn't too much of a rush to frisk me properly. Mulligan took a sip of his slurpee, continued, "I've killed two people in my life, and he was the second. He zipped his hoodie. It was late fall, it had gotten dark, but it was barely after supper. I was working a missing person's case, and I had been asked to swing by the client's place. Sweet people really, an aging man paw. The dad actually reminded me a lot of Lloyd Bridges. Too bad about that guy, had a long career, with a lot of diversity, but whenever I think of him, all that comes to mind is, "Picked a bad week to stop sniffing glue." You know, a mare plane. Anyway, I'd knock twice, and my hand was getting cold holding up in their metal screen door. I was actually thinking I was going to miss the Wheel of Fortune when the wind died down for a second, and I could hear shouting through the front door. I was worried Lloyd might be taking his stress out on my bridges, so I overplayed my welcome and pushed on inside. As soon as I was through the front hall, I could tell it wasn't the man of the house shouting. The voice was too young, strong. All I knew for sure was that he had money on his mind. I edged into the kitchen, hands out, figuring I'll play like an ambassador of peace. Instantly the noise vaporizes, and everyone staring at me like it's breakfast, and I'm a leprechaun that's just burst out of their box of lucky charms. The three of them were standing around a shiny kitchen table. Mom, the lead actor from Sea Hunt, and a shaggy bushman who looks like he spent the last six months in the wilds of Alaska, wrestling fresh salmon from the maws of grizzlies. I must have looked pretty surprised as well. The guy was holding a cleaver that looked like something out of a mid-80s slasher movie, long and hefty. The kind of thing they'd probably used in abattoirs around the turn of the century. Anyhow, the larger problem was that I'd found myself right beside the guy. From the hall it sounded like he was on the far side of the room, but when I entered he was close enough that I could smell his beef jerky breath and see the grease in his ratty beard. I hope I said something witty before he hit me, but I don't remember. The next thing I actually knew I was in the dark with a bad headache and blood in my eyes. At first I was pretty sure he'd hit me with the cleaver and it made me blind. But after a moment of pitiful moaning, the smell of oil and dirt reached my nose and my fingers took the time to prod at the thing making my ribs ache, which I realized was the spare tire I was lying on. He must have whacked me with the cleaver handle and carried me out to the trunk before high tailing it. I started kicking, kicking above the wheel well, kicking the roof of the trunk, doing my damnedest to put a hole through any piece of the bodywork. I was freaking out. If I'd been unconscious long enough, he would have already hit the outskirts of town, at which point I'd be totally pooched. What I really needed was a lot of people around, the more cops the better. The longer I listened though, the quieter it seemed. As time passed the trunk felt like it was shrinking, like there was less oxygen in the air to breathe. I'd reached around for my cell phone and my pistol became up empty. Like I mentioned earlier, my dad had been a cop from the 1930s till the early 80s and he carried the same 38s special the entire time. He'd only ever had to fire it on the range. When I got my license, he passed it on to me. I think he'd hoped it'd bring me the same luck it brought him. The thing was tiny though, it had no problem killing a man, sure, but when I'd practiced with it at the range, I got plenty of nice ladies' gun from hillbillies with nickel-plated super cannons. I ain't ashamed to admit that once I reached down and felt that full ankle holster, I started crying. I held it like a choir boy at prayer. I remember the squeal of the breaks. I don't know if it's my imagination or an honest memory, but it felt like I was drowning in the smell of pine, as if I was pulling sap into my lungs every time I tried to take a breath. I can hear his Kodiak work boots dragging on the gravel, the jingle of his keys. He said something to me that I couldn't make out through the trunk lid, or over the sound of my stuttering herd. Then suddenly, I could see half an inch of dark forest and dirt road. I wish I could say I was sprawled out like James Bond, ready to get the jump on the guy as soon as he opened the lid, but I never even gave him that chance. Pop pop pop pop, all six rounds through the trunk. I was able to sight my last shots a bit by aiming through the holes at the first ones it made, but it wasn't really a concern. The guy was a barn, there was no way I was going to miss him. The trunk's spurring finally pushes the hinge open, and there's Grizzly Adams looming over me cleaver raised. Then he falls over and that's that. I stood up. My ears were ringing, but I hoped to be able to wave down some passing lights. Nothing. I searched the car for a cell phone, mine or his, but nothing. The car's a mess. It's got layers of McDonald's wrappers, moldy homemade jerky, odds and ends of rope, fishing tackle and knives of all sizes, with blades ranging from skinning to rainbow. I stood there for maybe two hours, it's tough to know for sure when you're in shock. Finally, I pulled the keys from the trunk lock. I should have left in there for the police, but I was still frazzled and all I could picture was this guy getting his face eaten off by passing raccoons while I was tramping the back roads trying to find some people or pavement. It took me another 20 minutes to get him packed away with the spare tire. In the end, I called it in from a bell phone on the outside of a closed gas and go. My head was pretty clear by then, well, as clear as riding around with a body in your trunk will allow. I spoke to the cops first, then loyed, to let him know his missing persons case had been resolved and to try to break the news about his son gently than the police would have. Mulligan shrugged, his lips taking a tug at a slurpee, only to realize it had long gone empty. 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. [Music]
