Tag: Bunny Davis
FP268 – Coffin: Infrastructure, Part 1 of 3
Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode two hundred and sixty-eight.
Tonight we present Coffin: Infrastructure, Part 1 of 3
(Part 1 – Part 2 – Part 3)
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This week's episodes are brought to you by Haywire.
Flash Pulp is an experiment in broadcasting fresh pulp stories in the modern age – three to ten minutes of fiction brought to you Monday, Wednesday and Friday evenings.
Tonight, Will Coffin, urban shaman, and Bunny, his wobbly compatriot, find themselves watching a race.
Coffin: Infrastructure, Part 1 of 3
Nicholas Gretz, in a dirty pair of loose-tongued sneakers, eyed the murky pavement before him. Beside him roared a maroon 1965 Chevelle, which shivered under the forces its idling engine pushed through the bodywork of the car.
Nicholas had come to see a race.
Although he stood on the blacktop, the man had no fear of oncoming drivers. In a former life the road had been a highway, but, decades ago, its hazardous contours had caused it to be unhooked from the network that carried vacationing families and heavy-haul transports. The broad ditches had grown thick with underbrush, and the spruce and oak that lined the run sagged over the cement like weeping mourners, crowding the abandoned asphalt.
It hadn't seemed so remote when he'd exited the new interstate. It had taken some searching before he could wheel gingerly onto the proper mud track, but, when he'd exited the driver's seat and stretched his legs, he could hear far-off traffic – now, the close-walled lane was dominated by the rumble of the V8.
It was five minutes after midnight.
The evening had brought on a strong moon, but a brewing storm made it difficult for the light to find its way through the trees. Despite the conditions, Nicholas felt as if his gaze could trace every crack and pothole from his position to the turn, a short mile away.
He'd walked the place enough in the daytime that it might have even been true – he certainly needed no assistance to spot Lena.
At the distant corner, a girl of eighteen, whose long bleached hair shone against the dim, drifted from the scrub, and took her station at the center of the bend. She wore a men's white t-shirt, over a ragged pair of jeans, and her thin wrist was laden with a cascade of glowing neon bracelets; pink, green, and purple.
Nicholas remembered watching that same delicate wrist intently as they'd stood waiting for her mom's red Buick in the parking lot of Cowan's roadhouse.
She'd been working. He'd been loitering.
"Lena!" he shouted. There was no answer; no look of recognition.
The girl raised her illuminated bangles, and the Chevelle's rumbling thickened.
Gretz had once been a racer. He'd driven a 1987 Buick Regal.
At 12:11, a brown Ford pickup truck had approached in the northbound lane, and, without thinking, the girl dropped her hand to indicate they should wait, but, instead, had set free the finely-machined steel.
The air filled with the howl of controlled explosions and youthful disregard, then, with its departure, the Chevelle deposited a smoking layer of quickly-vapourising rubber in its wake.
Its headlights made no impression on the deep shadows, but its flame-hued rear bumper was somehow easily visible against the gloom.
Even in the roar, Nicholas recalled how a '65 Chevelle had seemed like a relic, and how quick he'd been to tell Dylan such.
For Gretz, time slowed.
At the half-mile mark he could see Lena's face turn to horror, and her neon flailing become panicked.
There'd been some question as to her heart's preference, but the concern in her round eyes was clearly intended for the Chevelle. Within, Dylan had made an attempt to pull onto the soft shoulder, but his delayed reaction came too late.
The truck didn't appear – the driver had spent the rest of his life learning to eat and write with his left hand, but had otherwise survived – and yet the noise was just as real as the original impact. The momentum of the pick-up's heavy work-engine was enough to deflect the still-turning Chevelle, so that the muscle car's back-end jumped from the concrete, and the vehicle twisted into the treeline.
Upon liftoff, however, the rear bumper carried with it Lena's jaw and skull, sending her airborne in a radiant arc.
She landed in exactly the spot he'd watched her rise from.
From within the tangle of bush and timber that had grown along the road's edge, a soft glimmer played on the leaves, and Gretz realized he was witnessing the afterglow of the wreck's blaze.
He began to walk in its direction.
At the halfway point, he passed the race's two other observers.
"I want to respect your privacy, and all that bull####," said Bunny, "but Oregon's nights are ####ing cold. Could you shuffle a little faster?"
Coffin, standing beside her, swung high his arcane silver chain, and kept his focus on the flickering ghost lights that were once a burning car.
Nicholas' memory had no trouble filling in the blanks. His legs faltered as he moved beyond where he'd wrestled the Regal to a stop, but pressed on.
He worked hard to ignore the girl's broken form as he pushed through the ferns and prodding branches.
Finally, standing beside the shattered Chevelle, he retrieved a mashed wad of ten dollar bills from the depths of his jeans' pocket.
Then, as he'd been instructed, he tossed the money into the wreck's phantom flames.
The race had kept him awake at night; Had pulled him from his bed; maybe had ruined his two attempts at marriage. He thought of the bleached blond girl with the supple wrist.
He began to weep.
"You win," Nicholas told the dark, but the destruction had already begun to fade.
Seconds later, Lena followed.
Flash Pulp is presented by http://skinner.fm, and is released under the Canadian Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 2.5 License.
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Text and audio commentaries can be sent to comments@flashpulp.com – but be aware that it may appear in the FlashCast.
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Flash Pulp, Uncategorised, Will Coffin
FP258 – Coffin: Dealing, Part 3 of 3
Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode two hundred and fifty-eight.
Tonight we present Coffin: Dealing, Part 3 of 3
This week's episodes are brought to you by the Nutty Bites podcast.
Tonight, Will Coffin, urban shaman, and Bunny Davis, his tipsy friend, find themselves deep in conversation with a dead killer.
Coffin: Dealing, Part 3 of 3
The pause between the stringy-haired drunk, the leather-jacketed shaman, and the lacy-skirted stranger, was a brief one.
Bunny had no idea who John Koyle was, why he apparently looked like a rockabilly hipster chick, or what life choices had driven him to murder the trio in the next room, but she certainly knew she had a pistol in her hand, and she intended to use it.
Coffin's reflexes were all that kept Priscilla Root alive.
"Whoa there, Quick Draw McGraw," he told his companion, as he stepped into her line of fire. "Let's hold a quick conversation, then shoot him.
"The name's familiar – Koyle? Weren't you some sort of murderous ferryman? Yeah, yeah, the dioramas are ringing a bell now. Blackhall mentioned you."
"Such wonders you have, these days, with your electricity and your nail guns. Tools for a true creator, they are," replied the man in the woman's body. His words rolled from plump pink lips. "I've always heard artists only gain proper notoriety after their death – it took nearly two hundred years, but even I've gathered an appreciative audience – and you know of Blackhall, you say? Interesting, indeed. Certainly not a detail I was given before being asked to pass my message."
Bunny had lowered the gun,and edged beyond Will's shoulder, so that she might maintain a view of Koyle. The living room was sizable enough, but its crowded shelves left the space feeling tight – especially while holding the conversation across the dead fellow on the couch.
"You're some kinda ####in' murderous time traveling drag queen?" she asked. "Oh ####, I mean, I have no problem with how you wanna dress – it's the murdering that makes me think you're an ###hole."
"No, I am something of a reincarnation. I've been given command of the rather pleasing body of Priscilla Root, former girlfriend of this sluggard," Koyle threw a purple-thumbnail towards the cadaver he shared the sofa with, "and compatriot to the three in the kitchen."
"Won't be long before they all reek," replied Coffin. Though his words were casual, his eyes roamed over the possessed woman's arms. Beneath the sleeves of Root's white-fringed vintage blouse, her limbs bore a interlocking maze of imagery: a school of koi fish flowed into the scales of looping dragons, whose smokey exhalations formed the tail feathers of a murder of crows.
Koyle smiled. "Oh, I'm quite used to it."
"You said something about a message?" asked Will.
"Yes, well, in truth, you're a wee bit early, but my bonfire was part of it. Your inebriate friend here, locked eternally, by my needles, into a position of prayer, will be the next. My, er, benefactors, want your knee bent, whatever the cost."
"Holy ####," said Bunny, "I don't want to sound cliche, but I think I'm actually about to shoot a messenger."
Despite her bluster, the killer's grin remained. "Not this time. I have leverage, and I doubt you're so hard hearted – harm me, and you harm Priscilla Root."
"Fine, let's just call the cops then – be pretty ####ing hilarious to spend your second lifetime in a jail cell, wouldn't it? It'd give Coffin plenty of time to whip up some mumbo jumbo and fish you out."
As if in response, a nearby car-door slammed, and the bewitched Ms. Root batted her lashes. "Do you think the local constabulary will arrive in the neighbourhood before the burly fellows, which I was asked to stall you for, manage to make their entrance?"
The security system gave a cheerful double bing.
"One of them has a gun," announced Koyle, to the now lit hallway.
From the depths of the homemade art gallery, well beyond their view, came a deep-throated reply. "That's fine, we're carrying three of our own."
The scuffle was short.
A distracted Bunny was disarmed by Koyle, who nimbly gained his feet and aimed a fist at her jaw.
Coffin stepped back, with his fingers in his pockets, but, before he might retrieve a talisman, a scream split the air. It had emanated from one of the unseen newcomers, and was immediately drowned in a rush of chittering.
Only one made it so far as the room's entryway: A thick-chested man in a simple gray suit. He held a pistol, but was too blind to find any use for it. About his neck maneuvered a pair of large black squirrels, their grasping claws dancing along the material at his collar, and their probing teeth finding purchase in the soft flesh of his face.
He managed a gurgled request for help, then was set upon by a ragged-haired German Shepherd, which laid its broad mouth across his left-calf, and commenced to thrash.
The intruder toppled, and a flood of night creatures followed – it was a motley arrangement of malnourished tom cats, raccoons, and rats, which dragged him away.
Then the house was once again silent.
"The #### was that?" asked Bunny, from her new position on the floor, as she rubbed her swelling cheek.
Uninterested in further conversation with the madman, Coffin uncoiled his silver chain and started its ornate hook along a rhythmic arc about his head.
"Bloody sorcerers," muttered Koyle, and Will took his swing.
The snare scarcely grazed Priscilla Root's temple, but it was enough, and the translucent form of a howling John Koyle was tugged from her flesh.
Unlike his previous experiences with the Crook of Ortez, however, Coffin found it necessary to maintain a contest of strength with the artifact, or otherwise allow the haunting spirit to return to inhabiting the woman.
Priscilla sat, heavily, upon the already occupied couch, and began shrieking.
"Gettin' punched by a hipster is the ####in' worst. They're nothin' but knuckles," said Bunny, as she gained her feet. She moved to hush the panicked screamer.
Will had worked to brace himself, but the greater the distance, the stronger Koyle seemed to pull towards his anchor.
To Priscilla's gaze, Coffin was engaged in a bizarre mime act; a fight with a chain floating of its own accord.
"We need to know which is the new tattoo," demanded the struggling shaman.
Without quite understanding the request, the weeping girl indicated a series of barbed swirls, worked into the skin of a geisha which circled the back, and palm, of her left hand.
"I'm sorry," replied Will, as he released his charm. The links fell, as if suddenly unburdened, and Priscilla Root was re-invaded.
Before the persistent phantasm could voice a note of victory, Bunny hit him.
As she did her best to hold down the returned shade, Coffin conducted a hurried search of the house, and turned up a cleaver, obviously beloved by its former foodie owner, as well as the compressor and nail gun which Koyle had extensively misused.
Using a dishtowel as a cuff, Will quickly had Priscilla's adorned arm pinned to the kitchen's tiles, though a further set of similar restraints were necessary to quiet the maniac's struggles. Once in place, though, there was time to plan.
Finally, as sirens filled the early morning, and under the staring eyes of Root's dead friends, Coffin began his surgery, with a heavy drop of the butcher's blade.
It was Priscilla alone who screamed, when he pressed the red-bottomed frying pan to her stump – and, even as he followed Bunny out the rear exit, the same wailing pulled the paramedics through the gore of the hall and living room, and to the injured woman's side.
As they rounded the neighbouring industrial building, and looked for a hole in the fence so that they might cross the tracks, Pisky's voice came to them from the thicket beyond.
"I'm a fool for a damsel in distress," he said, "but I'm sure you'll find a way to thank me."
Bunny considered a response, but instead kept her mouth busy with the bottle of pretentious scotch she'd managed to locate in the recently abandoned dining area.
"That's real sentimental of you, Pisky," replied Will, to the unseen animal lord. "I rather suspect, though, that you only saved me because I've got what you need."
Coffin tossed the cursed and still-flailing hand over the metal barrier, but did not wait for the chewing sounds of ripping sinew before continuing on.
Text and audio commentaries can be sent to skinner@skinner.fm, or the voicemail line at (206) 338-2792 – but be aware that it may appear in the FlashCast.
216 – Coffin: Communication, Part 1 of 1
Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode two hundred and sixteen.
Tonight we present, Coffin: Communication, Part 1 of 1.
This week's episodes are brought to you by Jimmy and the Black Wind.
Tonight, Will Coffin, urban shaman, and his tipsy roommate, Bunny, find themselves in the company of an estranged family, and an abomination.
Coffin: Communication, Part 1 of 1
An hour earlier, the beast had lost its friends.
It had some inkling that they'd provided good advice; they had plenty to say about the taste of cow, which it loved; and the tending of land, which it cared little for.
There'd been seven of them, and it had been wonderful to feel so snug and close.
They'd been cozy, until the interruption – until the pain.
Its memory had departed with its companions, but it knew the deep lined face that had brought its agony, and it would not forget the screech-mouthed berating it had received from the attacker's ally.
As it stumbled from the trees, it spotted an isolated home at the cusp of a barren field of muck, and the warm glow behind drawn curtains summoned it like a beacon.
It looked forward to talking.
The McKean's lived in a two story house at the furthest edge of Massawa Acres, a planned suburb still in the beginning throes of construction. Doug, the father, had bought early, with the thought that land prices would only rise as development continued. When he'd announced his plan, his family had done little more than nod their agreement before returning to their individual pursuits.
Now, a month after the move, the children – Tanya, seventeen, Jasper, fourteen, and Tracy, ten – were spread about the upper floor, as Melinda, their mother, sat upon a stool at the kitchen's island, and sipped a glass of pinot noir while awaiting her delivery of Thai food.
She paid no attention to the clamour outside, as she assumed either her husband had returned from work, or the spring rolls had arrived early.
In truth, the noise was their garage door being lifted open against the will of its lock, and dropped behind the intruder. Doug was, however, the next to approach. The man was eager to be out of his Benz, and into a bottle of Stella Artois, so his confusion soon lead to aggravation as he punched uselessly at the flat black button of the automatic opener.
Stepping from his vehicle, he walked to the entrance and stooped, but, as he prepared to give the handle a twist, the rolling shutter suddenly opened of its own accord.
The feeler moved with such speed that the elder McKean had no opportunity to take in breath for a final scream.
Six minutes later, Jasper received a text message.
"Got your movie, come help me unpack the car," it said.
If his mother had stopped to inquire as to his destination, or if he'd simply mentioned the oddity of the message, his course would have likely been altered, but the boy had been bopping away in his ear-buds when it arrived, and felt no need to stop the music as he made for the stairs. It was a surprise that Dad had decided to buy the concert film after all, but an interest in The Doors was one of the few things they shared, and perhaps he'd thought of it as a peace offering for his surly attitude earlier that morning.
As the house-alarm pinged to acknowledge his exit, Jasper realized how wrong he was.
Within moments the trespasser knew that "Your sister told me about your stash. We're going for a ride, young lady", was all that was needed to summon Tanya, but it took two attempts to raise a response from the teen.
Even after a reply of "B right there," it was a quarter hour till The Mediator ended its wait.
"Got something shiny for you in the car," was enough to lure Melinda, then Tracy was alone.
The fresh quiet in her home unsettled the girl, and she soon found her focus wandering from the colourful explosion of Lego spread across her bedroom floor.
She roamed briefly, checking the basement and ground level before swinging aside the long blinds that blocked the backyard's view of the woods. Finally, she began shouting, but was left unanswered.
It was only luck that sent her to the road, and not the garage, where the thing was finishing its most recent conversation.
Will and Bunny were moving as quickly as their feet would allow, but the size of their search area had Coffin's stomach feeling increasingly heavy. He'd gambled that it would head north, and, although he'd had found some reassurance in its trail of leaking fluids, it had been too long since he'd seen any sign.
It was getting dark, and the woods felt especially unfriendly in the growing chill.
"Jesus, the parts," said his roommate, as she drained a small plastic bottle – she didn't allow her vodka tipping to slow her pace.
"Yeah, you've mentioned them already," he replied.
Bunny tossed the empty container, and retrieved a follow-up from the depths of her thin jacket.
"No," she said, "I mean, the ####ing PARTS man, it was like you hit a goddamn cannibal pinata. Why the hell is it called The Mediator?"
"Hell if I know," replied Coffin, "The Victorians had a weird sense of humour, and the books are full of equally unhelpful names. Frankly, I prefer it to a string of random consonants held together with a slathering of vowels. Diplomacy with anything called Rixxargilax is a pain."
"You call slamming the rental car into a shambling ####ing monster diplomacy?"
"Hey, it wasn't under our name, and I wasn't expecting it to come at us for a chat."
"That don't mean much when my ass is forced to chase the thing through the set of Sleepy Hollow."
From ahead, Will noted artificial light creeping along the naked branches.
"Shut it, we're close," he said. He hoped he was right.
Another moment's travel, and they were on the road.
"Do you recognize this neighbourhood?" Coffin asked.
"No, this ain't my end of town at all," was Bunny's reply, but he'd already begun striding towards the shape of a girl standing in the nearest driveway.
"I can't find anyone!" shouted Tracy, with moist eyes.
"Is this your house?" asked Will, but the question was moot. As if his voice had activated it, the garage door slid upwards, protesting its misuse with a metallic grinding.
The beast, hobbled forward, slowed by its new-found weight and its injured cluster of left-legs.
It wore Doug across what Bunny thought of as its chest – the man's ribcage had been driven onto the upward-angled skewers that covered the entirety of The Mediator's body. Like fishhooks, the large pins also held Jasper and Tanya in place, upon two of its limbs; it had forced its thick tendrils into their mouths, and the grasping spines projected from their overstuffed throats like blowfish needles.
"You seem short a vehicle this time," said the creature.
Bunny turned to Will, and whispered, "ugly isn't talking like it was before."
"It lost its little hive mind when we knocked off the farmers with the Corolla," replied Coffin, "now it's built a new one – apparently a smart ass one."
"Mr Flesh-tux has their memories – their thoughts?" asked the drunk.
"This is no place to delve into its metaphysics and implications, we need to -"
Jasper swept left, sending a pair of green trashcans sideways, and the interloper stumbled forward.
Will found it difficult to consider his options while the arms of the former McKeans gave jerking twitches every time the horror moved within its suit of corpses. It was no help that, as the thing lumbered towards him, he noted another member of the parlay: Melinda was affixed across its spine, and the dead woman's eyes joggled endlessly as it wrapped a free limb around a set of hedge clippers, hung neatly within a marker outline on the wall.
"We're not interesting in speaking with you anymore," it said.
Setting aside her disbelief, Tracy began to weep.
Coffin was quickly at the girl's side, and withdrew a silver chain from his pocket, at the end of which was a hook of intricate craftsmanship. With a twist, he gave the talisman a sweeping momentum, and was soon swinging it about his head.
He knew hope was slim, and that if his trinket should land upon a McKean, and not the brute's own spiked mass, that he'd likely perish without getting a second chance.
Gulping in air, Coffin held his breath and waited.
Panrit Daoruang was always a man in a rush, and, as such, he hadn't noticed the oddity of the street-side gathering until he'd already reached his destination. His realization brought the Ford Focus to an abrupt halt, which sent the Pad Thai sliding from its position on the passenger seat, and splayed it across the rubber floor mat.
He rubbed at his eyes as a prickly hybrid of octopus and beetle, covered in bloodied cadavers, seemed to close on the forms of a man and girl.
Daoruang's hand moved to the gear shift, but, before he could reverse away, his door swung wide, and the stench of liquor filled his nostrils.
"Listen, you poor sum#####, not only am I stealing your car, I plan on turning it into a goddamn meat grinder. Unless you're looking for some cheap human-beef, get the #### outta here," said Bunny.
Uninterested in waiting for a reply, she dumped him on the pavement.
Twenty yards away, Will missed his swing, and, rather than wasting time in another attempt, instead grabbed up the child to run.
Though it was injured, The Mediator's chittering limbs easily outpaced the pair. It raised high its weapon, and hooted its victory – only to have the world lurch suddenly sideways.
Panicked, it realized it could no longer hear the eldest McKeans, though the confused voices of the still impaled youngest babbled at the edge of its consciousness.
From within the Focus, a slurred voice shouted, "that's three hundred points, dog-####er!"
It would be years before Bunny and Coffin ceased to discuss the gory results of the second impact, and many more before Tracy's letters of thanks trickled to a halt.
Coke Can Crush by sandyrb
Blood Hitting Window by Rock Savage
188 – Coffin: The Appearance, Part 1 of 1
Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode one hundred and eighty eight.
Tonight we present, Coffin: The Appearance, Part 1 of 1.
This week's episodes are brought to you by Absolution
They say it's free, but what will the real price be?
Find out more at http://www.scrivenerscircle.com/
Tonight, Coffin encounters something unusual amongst Dorset's occult patrons.
Flash Pulp 188 – Coffin: The Appearance, Part 1 of 1
It was Saturday night, and Will, with his roommate on hand for company, was sitting in a corner booth at Dorset's. Bunny was vigorously moving a glass of vodka and coke from the table top to her mouth.
"So I can't have x-ray vision, then?" she replied between gulps.
"Well," said Coffin, "I'm not saying it's an impossibility, I'm saying you may not like what you find. A few years ago, I met a big time nature lover. A rich widower, he'd traveled the world looking for someone who could grant him his deepest wish: He wanted a Doolittle, you know, the ability to speak with animals."
"Oh hell yeah," answered Bunny, "that's what I'm talking about. Adopt me a pooch I can order to get beer out of the fridge, maybe a budgie that can fly ahead and let me know if there's a line up at the Pita-torium. I'd be all "who's a good boy," and they'd be all "Me!" – I could even tell them to clean up their own ####!"
"Listen, because you can communicate with someone doesn't mean you can convince them to do anything. The guy I knew got his way eventually, and, within twelve months, he despised wildlife – pets too. He said engaging them was like trying to have a conversation with a brain damaged toddler in need of massive doses of Ritalin." As he spoke, Will noted the glass entrance swinging open. "I saw him rush a Siamese cat once. I guess Doolittle had spent the better part of his morning having to listen to the feline declare its lust to the neighbourhood."
"Poor horny pussy," replied Bunny with a smirk.
"To be fair, he was also that impatient with people – probably why he hankered for the company of beasts, though he didn't realize it was the mystery of the lack of understanding that he loved."
Will had dropped his tone as he completed his story. Just inside the doorway, a tall blond scratched at his unshaven stubble as he took in his surroundings. After a moment's consideration of the outlying booths, and the round tables at the center of the space, the newcomer approached the bar.
At the sight of the man, the three Steves, who'd been sipping at their Coors while chatting up the establishment's owner, pulled their caps down low, and spread out. One headed towards the washroom, another chose a distant seat, and the third readjusted his focus to the cable news channel playing endlessly to the left of the liquor shelves which stood behind the long run of oak.
"What you got on tap?" asked the stranger as he settled on a stool.
"Yeah, yeah, in a minute," replied Dorset, whose eyes were fixed intently on the television. The murmuring box was unwinding a commercial for Chicken McNuggets.
Five minutes later, the patron's second call for service finally pulled the bartender's attention to his job.
Pointing at the remaining Steve's beer, the blond asked for a helping of the same.
The Englishman selected an ill kept mug and pulled a draught from the taps, which seemed mostly foam – worse still, the ale further suffered when, in placing it before the customer, an apparent accidental tweak of the wrist sent a portion of the lager onto the purchaser's jeans.
Without apology, Dorset returned his focus to the silver-haired news anchor.
Bunny noted that the smattering of regulars around the room had fallen silent, and that all were intent on sipping at their beverages with down-turned faces.
"Fella doesn't appear very welcome," she said to Coffin, her voice a whisper.
"Nope," he replied.
"If he's some sorta Megadeth kiddie-chewin' demon mother####er, aren't you supposed to be this dive's bouncer?" she asked.
Will leaned forward.
"He's not a demon, and he hasn't caused any trouble – yet."
A scrawny twitching man burst into the quiet from outside.
The visitor, who Bunny thought of as The Insomniac, gave Coffin a wave, then headed towards the proprietor to place an order – which was quickly filled.
"Can I get a second?" asked the damp-panted tippler.
"Yeah, yeah, in a minute," replied the server.
With raised brows, the rebuked turned on the recent arrival, and they briefly locked gazes.
"Stare at something-####ing-else," said the spastic drinker.
His pupils shivered with his decades of sleeplessness – a condition often confused, by local law enforcement, with a raging methamphetamine addiction.
Abandoning the dregs of his mug, the insulted, and thirsty, man stood.
"This dump is balls," he muttered, slamming down a five dollar bill and not bothering to wait for change.
As the latch clicked shut, there were multiple audible exhalations across the tavern.
The barkeep tossed Will a smile.
"Jeez, you've totally gotta tell me that guy's story – was he, like, angry drunken Thor or something?" asked Bunny. "Reincarnation of Jack the Ripper? A ###damn inter-dimensional, tentacle-pervert, Nazi experiment?"
Coffin cleared his throat.
"Who knows. Some civilian. Just a schmuck off the street who's better off being along his way," he said.
172 – Coffin: Comfort Food, Part 1 of 1
Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode one hundred and seventy-two.
Tonight we present, Coffin: Comfort Food, Part 1 of 1.
This week's episodes are brought to you by Geek Out! with Mainframe.
Tonight, Will Coffin and his friend, Bunny, discover a grisly scene.
Flash Pulp 172 – Coffin: Comfort Food, Part 1 of 1
Standing nude beneath the low-ceiling of the living room, a tear appeared on the old man's cheek, disappeared into the depths of his wrinkles, then, traveling as if in a subterranean river, reappeared at his chin.
Every surface in the tiny basement apartment had been covered with cheap plastic sheeting, duct-taped together at the seams, including the ceiling, and the noise of the falling droplet seemed to linger along the shrouded walls.
"What in the sweet kingdom of cow-#### is going on here?" asked Bunny.
Coffin thought it was fairly obvious, given the camp stove, the tin plate, and the carefully piled dismembered-corpse.
Two days previous, Will and his drunken roommate had been sitting in Dorset's, and the urban shaman had been explaining a truth of his occupation.
"Well, what I'm trying to tell you is that not everything fantastic in the world – and by fantastic, I don't mean great, I mean awe inspiring – has to be some sort of occult happening."
"Listen, I've seen some ###damn X-Files #### since we've been hanging out together, and I don't think the bloody miracle of birth, or whatever, stands up to, say, basement zombies or suicidal immortals," replied Bunny.
"You're only down on child birthing because you've never been through it. For example: I know a guy who compulsively collects porn."
"Well, thank you for opening my eyes to the mysteries of the ####ing universe."
"Har, har. The thing is, he does it for their artistic merit. He's been at it since he was eighteen. He was looking through a magazine – Busty Bikers, or Ladies & The Tramps, or whatever, some low-class second-string naughty book – and he came across this photo of a woman on a couch. There was something about the lighting, the position, the mix of fear and hope on her face – he started crying."
"I had a boyfriend who'd do the same thing when he was looking at nudie pics. Frankly, he did it after sexy time too." Bunny took a deep sip of her rum and coke.
"No, it wasn't like that, he wasn't doing it out of shame, the picture was just – I've seen it. It's beautiful." Coffin paused, collecting his thoughts. "I don't think it was intended it to be. There were probably five-hundred pictures on the shoot – one shoot in however many thousand that happen a year – and through the law of averages, one of them was accidentally art. It was enough to send the collector on a life-long quest to find the diamonds in the rough."
"I knew a few strippers named Diamond too. I still don't get it, though – they're just a bunch of naked ladies."
Will sighed.
"Tell it to Goya," he said.
It was then that the mortician had arrived.
The shadiest of Capital City's array of undertakers, Coffin had dealt with the man on several occasions, often at the end of a long day of unpleasantness. It was a surprise to have the man come to him, as usually the situation was reversed.
Rolling up his sleeves, and drinking down half of the sudsy bounty Dorset had dispensed him, the silver haired body-wrangler took a seat at Will and Bunny's table.
"I've got a problem," said the newcomer.
"Join the club," Bunny answered, smacking her lips against the numbing layer of liquor that had gone unstirred at the bottom of her drink.
"No, not with the drink – I've got a body missing."
Coffin raised a brow.
"I thought the disappearing act was the reason you were paid so well."
"It isn't a client's cadaver – it's actually Tocohwet."
His leather jacket creaking as he stretched, Will whistled. Seeing his roommates confused look, he explained.
"Tocohwet is one of the assistants at the crematorium. She isn't – uh, wasn't – exactly here legally, but she was happy enough on the occasions I encountered her. She came with her husband, Manim, decades ago – a Wari', er, a tribe from Brazil. I suspect her employer here was fond of the fact that neither her, or her husband, spoke terribly great English."
"It didn't hurt," said the embalmer, "but we've worked together for years. I treated them like family!"
"Family who slept in a makeshift apartment over your garage," Coffin replied. "It sounds like you can't find either of them though?"
"Well, no. Manim came to me, weeping, and we went to his loft and there was Tocohwet, dead on the couch, Mr Bean still playing on the TV. I tried to bring her down to the crematorium, but, while I was on the stairs, Manny hit me from behind. I woke up later, lying in my own driveway, and the pair of them were gone, as was my wallet."
"I'm not really in the business of tracking rogue bodies, at least not unless they're back up and walking around," said Will.
"Look – just call up 1-800 dial-a-ghost, or whatever it is you do, and I'm sure you can track them down."
Coffin's face had remained unyielding, until he noted the bundle of bills rolling at him from across the brown-lacquered surface – then the hunt had begun.
The smell in the tiny-windowed space was not a pleasant one.
"Must have taken a bit of effort to find a place he could rent for cash," said Will, "then to get the plastic and everything. I don't think he even has a car – Kar'Wick only knows how he got all this here without anyone noticing that he was dragging a dead woman around behind him."
"He's a body-choppin' people eater!" Bunny replied.
"Don't be so closed-minded. He loved his wife."
Manim said nothing as his shoulders rolled with his despair. His lament silently nourished the growing puddle at his feet.
"He isn't Jeffrey Dahmer – his people used to consume their loved ones as a way of finding closure. He isn't a monster, he's just sad, and old, and wanting to carry on a tradition that supposedly civilized people told him he couldn't. His wife has been a part of him, emotionally, for a long time – now he wants her to be literally. Not only that, but, given their heritage, I'm sure it's what she wanted as well. They've been here for decades, maybe fifty or sixty years, and they've only had each other, and their beliefs."
"That's disgusting."
"I know a lot of folks who undertake a little metaphorical cannibalism every Sunday," Coffin said with a shrug. "In this case, he'd usually have a whole village to help. He has a big meal ahead of him."
As the room once again fell into a hush, Will knelt beside the portions that were once Tocohwet, and lit the small stove.
With a retch, Bunny moved towards the stairs.
Coffin's theme is Quinn's Song: A New Man, by Kevin MacLeod of http://incompetech.com/
FP164 – Coffin: Siren, Part 1 of 1
Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode one hundred and sixty-four.
Tonight we present, Coffin: Siren, Part 1 of 1.
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Tonight, Will Coffin, urban shaman, and his thirsty companion, Bunny Davis, find themselves locked in hand-to-hand combat with a civil servant.
Flash Pulp 164 – Coffin: Siren, Part 1 of 1
The two-story suburban home's upper windows had shattered under the heat of the blaze, but those on the lower floor remained closed, except a single pane in the front living-room, which had been cracked against the vigour of the air conditioner, and now allowed an outlet for the black smoke column that blew outwards as if tainted-steam from a roiling kettle.
At the center of the throng which had assembled to spectate the combustion, a steel-haired man held a weeping woman whose eyes peered constantly over his comforting shoulder, watching a lifetime of memories and knickknacks turned to kindling.
On the crowd's furthest edge, however, Bunny Davis was engaged in a fist fight. Her whisky habit had her at a disadvantage as far as accuracy or balance were concerned, but, liquid bravery, and a fast moving mouth, had kept her upright thus far.
She took another swing at the firefighter, but, again, her punch slid along the clear Plexiglas-visor with little effect.
"Fargh," said Will, only four-feet away, but entirely occupied with the stinging fury brought on by the can of mace he'd intercepted with his eyes.
"You ####ing pole-sliding truck-rider, just turn a-####in'-round and head back to your Ghostbusters shack."
The woman behind the breathing mask responded with a strong right to the nose, which put Bunny over backwards, and brought the smell of copper to her nostrils.
Her impediments disposed of, the fire-woman strode towards the burning structure, laid a boot to the front door, then entered.
The onlookers cheered.
Bunny, finding her feet, rubbed at her aching gin-blossoms as she watched a man, unseen by the majority of the gathered, move to the left-most window on the second floor.
With the flames framing his silhouette, he rubbed at his sharp-cornered chin, then stretched his muscled shoulders with a languid roll.
As his white t-shirt ignited, he began to strum his guitar.
A week earlier, Coffin and his tipsy roommate had been loitering in front of the Eats'N'Treats, busied largely with ignoring the glaring sun and the uncomfortable bench.
Bunny had located an abandoned newspaper, and was filling the time remarking on random entries as she used the broadsheet as cover to move vodka from her pocket to her mouth, and back again.
"Holy ####," she said, sipping, "looks like they're playin' the original Planet of the Apes downtown, I love that movie. Charlton Heston is the loudest ####ing actor I've ever seen. Sum##### lands on a planet full of monkeys and what's he do? Yells at 'em till they give him part of the Statue of Liberty – or, whatever, I mean, it's been a while – but what then? Yells at 'em some more."
"That's not quite how the film goes," replied Will.
"Whatever, all I'm sayin' is the man was a god #### genius."
Coffin's attention, only marginally involved in the conversation, was on a white truck sitting idle between a pair of the lot's faded yellow lines. The vehicle had parked five minutes earlier, but a passenger had yet to emerge.
"No one shouts like Heston anymore," Bunny continued. "I blame Clint Eastwood."
The pickup's door swung open, and a squat woman stepped down from the running-board. It was tough to tell her age, as she wore large black sunglasses which reminded Will of the visors occasionally worn by the blind, and the thick plastic left nothing but her furrowed cheeks as a clue. He guessed sixty.
"I'm looking for a Mr. Will Coffin," she said.
"I've heard of him," replied Bunny. "Lazy #######, that one."
"Sorry," said Will, "pay no mind to my, uh, assistant; too much sun, and too much cheap raspberry vodka, and she gets a little talkative. Something I can be of help with?"
"Name's Euphemia Dumfries. I'm a fire chaser out of the station at main and baseline. A paramedic friend of mine said I should talk to you – I, uh, a month ago we were responding to a basement fire and I heard this song. Simple thing, just an acoustic guitar and a strong voice – but it came floating over the heat, like a melody made of smoke. I'm hearing this tune over the crackle and pop, and I see this guy on the second floor. I lost it a bit, and pushed further inside than I should have. I caught myself just before running into the living room, where the floor was gone entirely. Scary thing about basement fires, you get down below ground-level with no stairs and you're basically standing in a barbecue pit. Anyhow, I was fine, but I was sure the fella was a goner – thing is, even once things were cleared, we didn't find anyone."
She paused in her story, and Will stood, offering her his spot on the bench.
Shaking her head, she pushed out a breath and then continued.
"I'm old for the work – if I didn't come so cheap and have the strength of an Alabama chain gang, I'd've been off the truck a long time ago. I didn't want to put in for a talk with a doc, as I figured they'd use it as the last straw. A couple weeks later though, we were dousing a garage over on Melville, and it hit a propane tank the home owner had forgotten under a pile of newspapers he'd intended on recycling. Brilliant. Blew out the drywall and his kitchen went up like a match. Now, I'm way back at the truck at this point – and I hear it again. There was the same guy, thirty-ish, and pretty like a TV doctor. He was at the second floor window again, and he was singing – he was singing to me. I don't really know what happened. I kicked through the front door, which was relatively unscathed, and bolted upstairs. I stomped into a guest bedroom, and there he was. He smiled, then he said '44 Wiltshire.' That's on the east end of town. What I didn't know was that things were pretty much under control on the ground floor. As soon as the danger was gone – so was he. I got my ### chewed out something fierce for acting like such an idiot with nothing to show for it."
"Not your fault, really," said Coffin, "I've heard of your troubadour. Died a decade and a half ago while writing a song for his wife in their bedroom. Story goes that the place burned down while she was off wrestling with his best friend. Now he serenades bystanders, and apparently first responders, from the interior of burning homes, hoping they'll join him inside."
"Why does he do it?" asked Euphemia, "and is there a way to stop it?"
"Well, spite, partially, but I figure he's probably hoping one will go willingly. He's claimed a few lives, but I doubt they were inclined to hang around with him in the afterlife, so his desire – for companionship – goes unsatisfied."
"Was a good looking eternity, to me." she replied. She adjusted her glasses and cleared her throat. "Honestly, I guess I knew the answer all along. I live to help, and, truth is, I'm getting old. If I don't die in my boots shortly, I'll end up accidentally doing so alone in my own bed."
They'd argued the point for seven days.
Coffin's theme is Quinn's Song: A New Man, by Kevin MacLeod of incompetech.com
Flash Pulp 131 – Coffin: Bunny Davis, Part 3 of 3
Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode one hundred and thirty-one.
Tonight we present Coffin: Bunny Davis, Part 3 of 3
This week's episodes are brought to you by the collected jabberings of Captain Ignatius Pigheart – tales of high seas, high adventure, and hilarity, straight from the lips of the Captain himself.
Buy the stories at CD Baby
Tonight, Will Coffin discovers the source of his vexation, and receives an uncomfortable proposition.
As the doors slid open, Will Coffin came face to face with Bunny Davis, whom he hadn't seen since his brief conversation with her dead husband, a week ago.
"Whoa – er – hi," she said.
"Hello," he replied.
As he spoke, Will moved from the elevator, his eyes scanning the corridors that stretched-out on either side.
"Can I talk to you for a sec?" asked Bunny.
Despite his answer, Coffin began strolling along the carpet, heading left. After a pause, she followed.
"I really -" her throat caught, and it was a few paces before she collected herself. "I want to say thank you for talking to Tim, but – well – things have been pretty —-ed up lately. This is actually just my third night home – would you believe they wanted to charge me with murder? If I hadn't started crying, that walrus- —-ing judge would have had me still in the can."
Will nodded.
"So you're out on bail now?"
"Yeah. Sort of. I mean, they let me go without paying anything, but I think it's because they know I'm too —-ing broke to try and make a break for it."
"Huh," he replied. They'd reached the end of the hall, and Coffin turned back towards the way they'd come, retracing their steps at a leisurely saunter.
As he passed Bunny, her face pinched.
"Hey – whatcha doing here at this time of night, anyhow?"
"Well -" he spoke with a distracted tone, and, as he walked, his hand fumbled with something in his right-hand jacket pocket. "I noticed the smell of sulphur while I was over at your place the other day. There are a lot of stinks in a building like this, but it still struck me as odd."
"I remember that. Really, I kind of thought it was coming from Tim's —. —-ing Tim."
"Yeah, well, I asked a, uh, knowledgeable friend about it, and when she didn't have much to say on the subject, I started doing some footwork. Details like that bother me. In the end I found a couple of twelve-year-olds who told me everything I needed to know, once I'd threatened to rat about their nicotine habits to their mothers."
"Kids? —-ing Kids." she replied, brushing back a loose bushel of her gray-stranded hair.
It was then that he realized she was probably more than a little drunk.
They crossed in front of the elevators, and continued on.
"Children tend to hear about these things a lot sooner than their parents, and its really the strength of their faith that causes the problems." Mid-stride, Will snapped from his reverie, and turned on the woman. He looked over her faded t-shirt and frumpy jeans. "Did you know that there were seven other murders in this building in the last five months? A father who killed his family, and then pitched himself over the balcony, and another couple, like you and Tim, who managed to strangle each other to death."
"Nooo?"
Coffin scrutinized her bloodshot eyes.
"Will you come to the trash room with me?"
"Uhm -" Bunny pinched her gin-blossomed nose. "I don't even – fine, whatever, but can I ask you a favour? Wait, you aren't going to try and —-ing murder me, are you?"
"Sure, and no, of course not-" Will's gaze had once again become unfocused, and he doubled his speed in moving back to the chromed elevator call signal. "I mention the murders because, of all the fatalities in the building over the last while, you're the only one to survive the crime-scene."
There was a high pitched ding, and the doors slid open. They entered, and Will lit up the button that would send them to the basement.
Bunny cleared her throat.
"My favour is kind of about that – I know you said sorry to Tim for me, but I – I don't think he's gone. I think he's still hanging out in the apartment. He talks to me sometimes. Calls me names."
Will nodded again.
"Yeah, that would make sense."
"Sense? Seriously, how does that make any —-ing sense at all?" Her mouth was open as if she was about to go on, but the pungent smell of rotting egg began to fill the descending box.
Coffin extended the bent right arm of his leather jacket, as if he were suddenly a Victorian gentleman offering a stroll. In his grasp hung his silver chain, with the intricate hook dangling above the floor.
"Put your hand on my coat," he requested.
She did, and he continued.
"The kids told me the story." As he spoke, they both watched the digital floor-indicator count down. "Last winter there was a homeless man who froze to death against the double doors that lead into the garbage bay."
"Took five —-ing guys to pry him off – I watched the whole thing from my balcony. Reminded me of the end of The Shining."
"All right, well, they said his name was Sulphur Jack. Supposedly he spent the night hammering on the entry, begging to be let in – and that people heard, but ignored it, which is why he promised to avenge himself with his dying rasp. Apparently you smell him coming, with an odour like rotten eggs, and it drives you mad."
Bunny's eyes grew large.
"Holy —-. Is that true!?"
"Not really – I doubt the story about the knocking and revenge is true, at least, but, in a case such as this, sometimes it doesn't matter. He was probably just some drunk looking for shelter who had the bad luck to pass out before someone exited the door and gave him the chance to sneak inside, but occasionally a legend picks up enough momentum to take on a life of its own – especially if there's a death involved."
Even with a belly full of gin, Bunny raised a skeptical brow.
"It wasn't always like this," Coffin said. They passed the second floor, and the stench became almost too much to ignore. "Twenty-five years ago, when I first got started, even adepts who knew what they were doing could barely manage a table-thump with a room full of focused people and the proper tools. These days it almost feels as if someone like you, who doesn't mean to do it on purpose, can't drink themselves into a stupor without stumbling into an entity."
With a cheerful beep, the feeling of sinking stopped.
As the exit slid back, their new view was not a pleasant one.
Across a barren expanse of gray cement stood a figure in a shabby raincoat. His lips were blue, and his skin ashen. The right side of his face was torn away, exposing the muscle and bone below, and thick yellow mucus streamed from his exposed nostril.
"Holy —-," said Bunny.
"It's very important that you don't take your hands off the leather," replied Will.
Then he stepped from the elevator, with the woman still firmly affixed to his sleeve.
As he crept forward, he apologized.
"Sorry, they did mention that he was missing the flesh that stuck to the door."
Coffin took a deep breath, and immediately regretted it – but, to reassure the former Mrs. Davis, he kept talking.
"This handsome fellow is essentially an urban legend powered by a bunch of hormonally over-active imaginations and the afterimage of a ghost that doesn't have enough willpower left to make its own way. I know it's tough to remember that when you can see snot dripping from his nose, and freezing upon the ground, but I've never found closing my eyes to be any help, because then you know they're there, you just can't see them."
Although he watched their progress intently, the beggared form remained motionless and silent.
Five more steps and they'd closed the distance. With his free hand Will brought forth a key.
He held the nickel-plated shape into the view of Jack's bulging, lidless, pupil, then spoke.
"This is a copy to the garbage area entrance. I got it from the manager of the building, and he's also agreed to have it crazy glued outside, in the crack beside the jamb. By tomorrow morning it'll be buried in the stuff, but that shouldn't be a problem for you."
Coffin felt spiny icicles spear through his hand as the apparition took hold of the metal.
Then the man disappeared, and his reek with him.
Flexing his palm, Will scooped the token from where it had fallen. He tucked both it, and the silver chain, out of sight.
"I think we've convinced the spirit of the dead man to move on, so long as we keep our bargain. I'd appreciate it if, tomorrow, you could start spreading the tale of why Fadi has a key cemented into the wall. We need to make an addition to the myth to be sure."
Reaching into her rear-pocket, Bunny fished out a small plastic bottle of vodka. She removed the lid with gusto, and swallowed the contents in a single slug.
"OK," she said, smacking her lips. "Listen. I don't know what the —- that was, but I do know that if I go back up to my place, my dead —-ing husband is going to be slapping my — and calling me —–y —-ing names. Can I stay at your place or not?"
Will was startled at the suggestion. He spent a long moment weighing the annoyance of an inebriated visitor against the constant haunting of his own wife.
It wasn't the first time he'd given someone sanctuary – he guessed that she must have heard such from whomever had originally spread the word of his craft to her ear.
"Fine," he said, "but you clean up your own mess, buy your own food, and, if you're more than a couple of days, you'll need to start pitching in for my bills. No one stays more than a month, I'm not looking for a roommate."
He didn't realize then that it would be many years – well after the story of Sulphur Jack had been entirely forgotten – before their association ended.
Flash Pulp is presented by http://skinner.fm, and is released under the Canadian Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 2.5 License. Text and audio commentaries can be sent to skinner@skinner.fm, or the voicemail line at (206) 338-2792 – but be aware that it may appear in the FlashCast.
Will Coffin's theme is Quinn's Song – A New Man, by Kevin Macleod of incompetech.com
Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode one hundred and thirty.
This week's episodes are brought to you by the collected jabberings of Captain Ignatius Pigheart – frothy tales of mermaids and seamen, as recounted by the Captain himself.
Buy the stories, full of humour and high adventure, at CD Baby
Tonight, Will Coffin must ask a difficult question.
Stepping from the elevator, Will adjusted his hold on the television he'd recently received as payment from Bunny Davis, and moved towards the small office that adjoined the lobby. Between the slats of the aqua-marine blinds, which the building's superintendent had hung to provide some privacy within the glass walls, Coffin could see the short Lebanese man behind a stack of paperwork.
As the manager noticed his approach, a hand went to the rosary Will knew he kept tucked in the A-shirt he wore beneath his polyester armour.
"Can I ask a favour, Fadi?" Will said through the open doorway, while balancing the TV against the jamb.
"Of course, my friend." Fadi tried to smile.
"Rewind the tape twenty-minutes." As he spoke, Coffin's eyes tracked to the monitor displaying footage from the only working security camera in the entranceway.
The smile finally took, and the little man rose from his cluttered desk, making his way to the ancient VCR.
"Things are well?" he asked, his fingers stabbing at the device's faded buttons.
"As well as ever," Will responded. "You may want to call Kim and her friends to come by tomorrow morning though, you'll have cruisers parked out front pretty soon."
There was a moment filled with only the hum of the tape machine taking back time. The office dweller sucked in his lower lip and released it from between his teeth with small pop.
"That should be enough." With a metallic clunk, the recording process began anew.
"Thanks," said Coffin.
"No problem, my friend." the manager replied. His grin had faded.
Will gave a quick good bye, then departed. As he did so, he saw the suit move to grab the phone – likely to make an appointment with Kimberly Berg, a mutual acquaintance who ran a crime-scene cleaning crew.
It was a short walk to his own apartment, and, after storing the twenty-one inch set in a bedroom closet stacked full with screens of all sizes, he threw his coat across the red wing-back chair which made up the only furniture in his living room.
He spent a few seconds staring at the sliding glass which lead to the balcony, then turned to face the kitchen. Stepping onto the cold tiles, Will flicked on the lone still-functioning fluorescent bulb, and considered his options. As he completed gnawing down his thumbnail, he strolled back to his bed and reached for the cheap portable phone he kept on an adjacent nightstand.
He called his sister-in-law.
The conversation took about forty-minutes, and he spent the majority of it listening, or saying "sure".
Once he'd hung up, he stood, and his knees popped in complaint. He always felt older than his years following a talk with Peggy. Shuffling back into the hall, he spared another glance for the patio door, then re-entered the kitchen and prepared some frosted flakes with milk.
He was half way through the cereal when he dropped his bowl in annoyance.
Unable to bring himself to hold off any longer, he strode across the living room's rough carpet and moved the locking mechanism downward.
Will didn't bother retrieving his jacket – he didn't need the silver chain to speak with Sandra.
Sandra was always there.
He dropped a socked-foot onto the cement outside.
Grasping the warm steel of the railing with both hands, he coughed to clear his throat, then spoke.
Eighteen floors below, Sandy commenced untangling herself.
She lifted her upper body in a crisp push up, and, despite the fact that she whispered into the parking-lot pavement, her voice carried to his ear as if she had snuck up behind him while he was chasing a mystery through one of the thick tomes that lined his bedroom shelves.
"Hello, Will," she replied, beginning to crawl towards the wall that ran the height of the building. "How are things? How's your Mom?"
"Yeah, funny – listen, I need a favour." His eyes never left her form as she once again forced her fingers bloodily between the cracks in the brickwork.
"Hon, if you want to come down here and have a chat, I'd love to provide you any favour you'd please. You know I've been missing you." She had almost cleared the height of the first balcony, and her useless legs beat a sloppy rhythm against the mortar-work as she climbed.
"Tim Davis, from the south tower, had an accident this morning."
"Yeah, Will, I've already heard about Tim. Didn't seem like much of an accident, the way I was told it. Speaking of bladed objects to the face, do you remember the time that manifestation of Santa Claus came at you with those promotional steak-knives? Back at the Wallmalton Plaza? Long time ago I guess. Do you still hate Christmas because it? Watching you chucking presents to fend him off must have been one of the funniest things I ever saw. You're lucky for that jacket, or it would have been you, and not that poor fleet of plastic reindeer, who ended up perforated."
Her stalling chatter had brought her a third of the way to him, and he could see the trail of her progress staining the route. He knew that the bonds of her prison pulled tighter as she rose; that once she surrendered her will to the inexorable gravity that pulled her back to her twisted fetal position, all of the nail and flesh she'd grated away would also find its way home; but he still couldn't help but feel a little heart sick for the fingers that had once probed his defenses for ticklish spots.
"There was a smell of sulphur before I went in. Other than the obvious, I can't think of anything that would leave that sort of stench lying around. Also, after chatting with the former Mrs. Davis, I don't think she's capable of killing anything under her own power – even with the provocation she had. I feel like there's something more at work."
He took in a deep breath.
She had made it past the three-quarter mark, and he was sure she was getting faster with every attempted ascent. It was time to make his closing pitch.
"Oh, I forgot to mention, I talked to Peggy tonight. You wouldn't believe what happened to Vilmer Jr. last week at school."
Although their network of conversation carried much information, the dead rarely had news on the living. On those nights when Will came to talk of her sister's family, the phantasm would often stop before even reaching the mid-point, not wanting to risk shortening the chat.
"If you have anything interesting to tell me by tomorrow morning, I'll gladly spend some time recounting the details of Vil's shop-class saga."
Sandra paused, and he knew he had her – she might have been homicidal, but she wasn't unreasonable.
"Will, you really are a dick sometimes. Fine, but you better be here early. Hey, in the meanwhile, how about telling me what else you got up to today?" She had resumed climbing, although at a slower pace.
"Sorry," he replied.
He turned and pushed back the flimsy curtain, quickly stepping over the threshold and pulling the seal tight behind him. As he reset the small lock, Sandra's muffled scream emanated through the heavy barrier. He felt a flush of respect for the strength with which she resisted the unseen hands that tugged her back to the center of her universe, the small patch of ground she'd inhabited for the last ten years.
Unfortunately, respect was no help when she finally flopped over the edge of the balcony, and began rubbing the juicy nubs of her fingers against the glass. He dumped the remainder of his cereal down the sink, and marooned the dirty dishes on the kitchen table.
"Sometimes you aren't a very good wife," he shouted.
The phone began to ring, and he was pleased at the unexpected distraction. As he retreated into the depths of his apartment to answer, however, he was chased by the squeaking sound of a wet squeegee on a filthy windshield.
Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode one hundred and twenty-nine.
This week's episodes are brought to you by the collected jabberings of Captain Ignatius Pigheart – tales that'll warm the cockles of any musky urchin.
Tonight, we introduce Will Coffin, a man of unusual knowledge and charms.
Will Coffin ran his eyes over the shimmering expanse of parking lot, idly wondering what made the power lines hum on a hot day, and dipped his hand into the small bag of sunflower seeds that sat beside him on the bench. He hated his new spot outside of the Eats & Treats, it got too much sun during the day, and there were never any pigeons around to feed, but his old haunt had burned to the ground, and he didn't feel comfortable loitering in a vacant lot.
Still, people knew where to find him.
He was spitting out the last of the seed husks when he noted Bunny Davis, from the north tower, crossing the street. She was wearing a long, white-fuzzed bathrobe.
Will tossed the plastic sack in the garbage, and laid mental odds regarding her destination: the interior of the chain-store, or his own curb-side office. He stood at a fifty-fifty split until she was close enough that he could better make out her face, and then the odds began to slide. When her housecoat slipped open to reveal her puffy body covered in blood, Coffin moved to stand.
"Will, I need help."
Rather than interrupt, he simply waited out the obvious part of the discussion.
"I've killed Tim!"
It was the last coherent statement she would make for a while, as Bunny seemed to begin an attempt to curl her extremities into herself. Her arms became locked against her rough face, covering the spider-lines left on her cheeks and nose by drink, and she sank to the ground.
"Come on now," Will said, placing a hand on her shoulder- the knotted knuckles of his long fingers looked out of place on the white fuzz. "You'll hurt your knees that way."
He lifted her to his.
Embarrassed on her behalf, regarding her robe, he attempted to draw it closed without bringing her attention to the fact that it had been open. In the end he had to take off his own beaten leather jacket, and place it over her knees. She'd been relatively oblivious during the process, resorting instead to expressing herself through an unwavering, extended-squeal.
Coffin suspected it might have been a scream too large for her throat.
Mr. Nickels, from the east tower, came into the view, hustling his wheelchair across the street while raising a hand to Will. As he neared, he took in the weeping white fluff, and his course altered slightly – instead of intersecting the bench, he sailed towards the store's automatic doors and disappeared inside.
Unmindful, Bunny continued her kettle-screech.
After a while, Nickels exited the shop. In his lap was the victory prize of a pack of smokes, having been won after ten rounds of jawing with Lornie, the shop's owner. As he passed, he gave Will a quick nod, then turned, setting his jaw as he made to cross during a blinking yellow light.
Will eyed the sky.
The time was coming when people would be arriving home from work, and he wanted to be clear of the street by then. Between five and midnight, they too shared the neighbourhood.
He stood, pacing a little, which seemed to be enough for Bunny to finally get a grip on the emotional valve that had given way. Her squeal contracted to a halt, and she looked up at Will. She attempted to speak, but at first she could only manage a cough.
After a moment, she did a poor job of spitting a combination of blood and mucus onto the pavement, then she tried again.
"We were just sitting around talking. That song, "Heart of Glass" came on? I love that song." She made a sound that could have been either a throat clear, or a laugh, and spat again. "Tim says 'Shut that —-ing thing off,' but I've got half a bottle of backbone in me, and I figure, —- that, we know they ain't home in the place above or below, so why not have some fun? I turn it up a little and that's when he —-ing kicks me on the leg, just below my ass. I don't know if he was aiming for my cheek, or what, but he probably would have broken my tailbone with those —-ing work boots of his.
"I go over, and suddenly I'm staring at the bottom of the table and realizing how much gum we've actually shoved under there. He reaches across and turns down the radio, then sits down to butter his toast like nothing ever happened – like he can just ignore that —-. I sat up, got the rest of the bottle down, and went into the kitchen to get the cleaver with the wood handle that my Mom left me when she passed. I'm standing there, and I'm yelling at him, and he just looks so mad that I'm pretty sure if I put the cleaver down, he's going to pick it back up again, and that'll be the end of me – but then he starts laughing, and I KNOW if I put it down, it'll be the end of me."
Her telling was interrupted as she began to shiver, and Will, glancing at his watch, decided it might be best if they got traveling. He stood, offering her a hand.
As they waited out the cross traffic at the light, Bunny continued.
"Well, after a while he sort of realized we were at a standoff. He decides he's going to go into the kitchen, and he grabs a fish fillet-er out of the block. I'd followed him into the room, screaming not to —-ing move, when I really should have been running out the —-ing door. Anyhow, he gets the knife and he starts threatening again, and every now and then he takes a swing at me. At first he's just trying to scare me, but then he cut me, " she raised a hand to her stomach, but never broke stride on the cracked asphalt of the crosswalk. "I was sure he was going to really mean the next one, so I brought the knife down on his forehead like I was chopping wood. Damned if Tim didn't fall straight over on his spine – toes of his boots up in the air and that handle pushin' down his nose – just like Daffy Duck catching a frying pan with his face."
Her story carried them through the front door of her building, past the red brick work, the Sears artwork, and the fake potted palms flanking the elevators. A Vietnamese woman, holding a brown paper bag of take out, stood waiting. The up button was already illuminated. Bunny distractedly attempted to knot the front of her robe, failed on the first attempt, and had to loosen it once she had succeeded. After a ten minute wait, the panels slid open, and the three rode upward while trying to ignore the unsettling grinding noises of the ancient hoist.
Bunny led the way as they exited, directing him to a long a barren hall, adorned only with a harshly-patterned carpet that reminded Will of his few experiences with Las Vegas casinos.
The smell of the hall filled his nostrils as he passed through it. His stomach growled at the smell of a simmering curry, but was quickly quelled by the stink of a chain smoker. Beneath it all, there was something more: a vague hint of sulphur.
Will followed Bunny's lead in keeping the door as closed as possible as they went through, but the entryway contained nothing but a filthy rug and a pair of worn sneakers.
"Huh." Will said, passing through the small dining room, towards the kitchen. He was familiar with all of the interior layouts of the towering apartment blocks that populated his neighborhood.
Upon viewing the sprawled body of the former Mr. Davis, his initial thought was that the knife – a thick bladed affair, its long wooden handle smoothed by years of honest use – had pushed Tim's nose so far down that it might have been almost funny, if it didn't look so uncomfortable. He considered pulling the handle up a bit to give the dead man some breathing room, but decided it wasn't worth leaving the weepy killer to explain why it had been wiped down.
"I want to tell him I'm sorry," said Bunny.
"Huh." Will said again.
The cooking area was long and narrow, with a small, floral-topped table on one side. Over the knife-scoured counter a pass-through revealed the living room's lop-sided couch, from which peeked yellow stuffing from numerous cigarette burns.
"Do you know the price?" Coffin asked.
"Yep," she replied.
"Go into the bedroom and wait."
He watched until the white robe had disappeared through the doorway, then bent low over the corpse.
Unzipping the right hand pocket of his beaten jacket, he pulled forth a silver charm on a length of slender chain. The talisman had something of the appearance of a hook, but it's sharpened point bent into a swirl of intricate lacing, so that threading anything onto it required some maneuvering. At the base of the hook, stuck firmly through the middle, was a drying hunk of meat, which Will made every effort to think of as nothing more than beef jerky.
He dipped the links onto the body's left cheek, and let the cold metal drag along its temple.
Then he tugged.
The un-affixed hook had suddenly taken on weight, but Coffin put his arm to it, and out popped the ghost of Tim Davis, as if pulled by an ethereal magnet.
"That —-," said the phantom.
Will shrugged. "I don't think the police are going to think so – that's a mean slash across her belly, and you have a look about you which suggests you may be the the kind of fellow around which a lady might require a little self-defence."
The apparition narrowed its gauzy eyes.
"You looking to move in on my woman?"
"No. Bunny wants me to tell you she's sorry."
"Sorry? Oh, I'll make her —-ing sorry." Tim took a step towards the doorway, but was stymied at the end of his tether. Without turning, he demanded to be let go.
"Fine," Coffin replied. Dropping his grip, the chain went suddenly limp, passing through the spectre and landing in a heap on the battered linoleum.
Davis attempted to bring another leg forward, but found himself pulling against a terrific force.
"What?" was all he managed before he dropped to one knee. His efforts were useless, however; he tumbled into his own remains, once again assuming their exact position.
Will rubbed a tired eye, then picked up his artifact and re-pocketed it.
As he pushed his way into the bedroom, Bunny jumped to her feet.
"Is it over?"
"Did he say anything?"
The leather jacket raised in another shrug.
Realizing any further answer he gave would be just as unlikely to satisfy her, she moved on.
"About what I owe you – there's a flat screen in the living room…"
"No, you may need to pawn it for bail." The woman's eyes misted as Coffin spoke. "I'll just take this twenty-one inch, it's a better fit to the price of the job. I'm going to go, but you need to call the police as soon as I'm out. Show them what he did, and tell them what you told me. Just be patient, and you'll make out all right – but, by the crushing damnation of Kar'Wick's-brood, don't mention I was here."
Will believed firmly that people better followed his instructions if he spiced them up with some of his professional jargon.
He scooped up the small TV, then waited for some response from his patron.
Bunny nodded.
He exited the apartment, pausing at the door only long enough to hear the three flat beeps that began a 911 call.