Part one of one.
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Tonight the PI finds himself in the darkest depths of suburbia, only to realize he isn't alone.
The Skinner Co. Network
004 - Mulligan Smith and The Standoff, Part 1 of 1
[Music] Welcome to FlashPulp episode 4. [Music] Tonight's story, Mulligan Smith and the Standoff. The delay, as well as tonight's episode, was and is brought to you by Matunes.com. When you've got to throw out a plorinatic hillbilly who's been squatting in your friend's apartment, it's Matunes.com. FlashPulp is an experiment in broadcasting fresh pulp stories in the modern age. 400 to 600 words brought to you Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. This evening's episode, originally scheduled to be broadcast on Monday, is another of the tales of Mulligan Smith. Tonight, the PI finds himself in the darkest depths of suburbia, only to realize he isn't alone. [Music] Mulligan Smith and the Standoff. Written by J.R.D. Skinner. Art and narration by Opoponax and audio produced by Jessica May. They both had guns drawn, and Mulligan knew it to be a bad scene. Mulligan maintained a simple rule about firearms, and when the police asked, he always had generally the same thing to say. Never draw first if you can avoid it. Pull out a pistol, and the other guy suddenly feels inadequate and wants one too. Hell, if he wants it bad enough, maybe he'll try and take yours. Smith hadn't had much choice, however, as he'd stepped from the plush white carpet of the home office to the burgundy pile of the hallway, someone had loudly ratcheted a 12-gauge near the front door. Since the announcement of intentions, the white-paneled house had fallen exam room silent. Mulligan knew that his unexpected collar, likely the pepper-haired golfer who owned the home, was probably tiptoeing along the plush, dusty coral living-room carpet. The PI was perched in the shadows at the edge of the hallway. A right would take him to the front door, the fake hardwood of the short front hall, directly in line of sight of the sunken living-room. His other option was to move forward into the inky blackness ahead of him, where he knew the kitchen and dining area lay. The alternate route offered the conveniences of a patio door, and an overlook into the living-room. A sprint to the sliding door tempted Mulligan, but the idea of silhouetting himself against the glow of the huge window kept him still. He was beginning to contemplate turning back into one of the alternate doors that branched off from the hallway. Surely there was an overtly white bathroom with the window he might tumble out of. When a vase in the living-room swooned, gave a hollow thud to mark the departure from its tabletop home, and made a solid landing on the carpet. Mulligan's mind slid this new information around like a puzzle piece, attempting to fit it into his understanding of the scenario. He forced himself to conjure every bit of memory he could, from the cursory glance of the living-room he'd have before pressing on deeper into the house. There was a large standing lamp in the far corner of the room. A TV directly to his right, couches to his left, and yes, a heavy pearl lamp with a golden shade that would likely have made that exact thud. Its platform was a stout oak-side table, the kind of thing that would be quite handy as a stool if someone wanted to pull themselves up from the living-room over the railing and into the dining area. A large part of the problem with wandering armed around a strange house in the dark is that you don't really have a lot of rights under the law, and Mulligan knew it. If he were to shoot the aging businessman, it would be a murder charge. If 18-hole mixed swings took a shot at him, knocking him dead, the police would look at it as one less burglar, and never mind that the old man drew first, and then Mulligan had no interest in violence. His eyes still hadn't adjusted to the darkness, which he hoped meant that neither had his opponents. While still trying to peer into the murk that was the kitchen, his free hand traced loops along the wall, hoping to encounter something that might be of use. His fingertips came across a large hanging photo housed in a heavy silver frame. Mulligan tucked away his pistol and rolled his shoulders in a quick stretch. In a single smooth motion, he removed the frame from the wall, tucked it into Frisbee position, and let fly into the darkness. As the picture left his hand, his right foot followed, chasing it into the kitchen. His path diverged there, however, as he turned right and flew down the double step that led to the front hall and escape. Behind him the frame briefly sailed on, catching a glint from the kitchen window to reveal the image of an aging couple, their adult children, and on their laps the third generation, all hanging in a moment in space. Well before Mulligan had reached the door, he heard the shotgun roar, and somewhere underneath glass shattering. Unable to feel any new gaping wounds in his body, his feet found fresh speed, his hands moved with surety in finding the deadbolt and gnob. "You, I shot my family!" chased him through the oak frame and down the cobblestone front path. His goal, a series of hotel receipts, meticulously kept for tax reasons, tucked deep in one of his hoodies, many pockets. [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.