Category Archives: Mulligan Smith

Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode three hundred and sixty-three.

Tonight we present Mulligan and The Monkee, Part 1 of 1
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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, Mulligan Smith, private investigator, finds himself awaiting a waning star in a gambling den’s watering hole.

 

Mulligan and The Monkee

Written by J.R.D. Skinner
Art and Narration by Opopanax
and Audio produced by Jessica May

 

Mulligan sat in the Seneca Niagara Casino’s bar thinking about his mom. It wasn’t her sort of place – he doubted she’d ever stepped foot in a casino in her limited time – but he was sure she would’ve flocked to this one. Risking another look of annoyance from the vested minimum-wager mixing drinks out of a book, the PI ordered a third 7 Up.

In the mirror behind the bottle shelf, Smith watched a cluster of six gray-haired women tittering around a standing table. As they talked, their eyes tracked from their fruity drinks to the door and back, and Mulligan was again reminded that his mother wouldn’t have been much older.

Running his thumb across his lips as if it might wipe the thought away, he hooked a nail under the can’s tab – he was broke or he wouldn’t be working this sort of job, and no tip, meant no glass – and that’s when he noted The Fop again.

Thirty-something, long hair, long coat, long pants. Despite the appearance of melting lent to him by his sagging clothes, his face, angular but slight, was so cleanly cut that Mulligan was convinced he’d either never sprouted facial hair, or that he shaved with a laser.

He’d spotted the man earlier in the evening, at the concert. The casino’s security were a customer-friendly lot – friendlier than the bar staff, the detective reckoned – and they’d seen little threat in letting two dozen grandmothers rush the edge of the stage to shout their love to the man of the hour.

The now ancient Michael Nesmith, the last of The Monkees and Mulligan’s mother’s third greatest love in life, had cared little for the attention. His gaze was sharp under his wrinkled brow, but he seemed interested only in thoroughly wringing every note from the neck of his Les Paul.

Smith had taken in most of the show with one eye on the hypnotic movements of his knuckled hands and the other on the glass-hipped groupies.

The Fop had hovered a few feet from the gently hopping and waving women, his phone camera up and snapping away. Though he hadn’t made any attempt to move closer, his out-of-time dress was unavoidably noticeable under the show’s rainbow kaleidoscope of lighting effects.

By Circle Sky Mulligan was sure he’d see the man at the meet and greet.

When Nesmith shuffled into the room, however, all attention was his. He was quickly enveloped as he approached the table, and he spent the following fifteen minutes patiently refusing offers of liquor, and more, from the cloud of cooing.

Bessie Kowalski, the true reason Mulligan was on hand, took especial care to draw attention to her ringless fingers.

As her shrill giggles carried to his ears, Smith reminded himself of the words his mother had always given him when they’d tended her garden together: Tools were meant to be used.

He could not deny that The Fop was a tool indeed.

Watching the hatless musician say his good nights, Mulligan triple checked his conclusion.

Was The Fop a fan? He’d looked at his watch five times during the show, and he hadn’t sung along to anything but Daydream Believer – and, even then, Smith felt he’d simply mouthed his way through most of the verses.

If he wasn’t here for the music, what reason would a youngish man have for hanging around a gathering largely made up of aging women lustily drinking in a casino?

Mike was drifting towards the door and the ladies were clearly planning the remainder of their evenings.

Leaning in, Smith told The Fop, “the old fella might care more if he saw the Ferrari the one in the low-cut green dress drove up in, beautiful machine.”

In reality, everything Smith had read about the receding pop idol told him it went against the image he projected, but it was clear his conversation partner had no interest in Nesmith’s minutiae.

After two long gulps the man in the coat cleared his daiquiri, then he raised a hand for two more and set out across the room.

An hour later, Bessie, wearing only The Fop’s long jacket, would answer Mulligan’s knocking at the door to her comped suite.

The PI was too broke to even be carrying the complimentary champagne he claimed to be delivering – he’d simply filled an ice bucket and covered it with a towel after borrowing a red uniform shirt from a maintenance closet – but, through the briefly opened door, he still managed to collect all of the unpleasant photos that Mr. Kowalski, his client, had suspected he might find.

 

Flash Pulp is presented by https://www.skinner.fm, and is released under the Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 3.0 Unported License.

Intro and outro work provided by Jay Langejans of The New Fiction Writers podcast.

Freesound.org credits:

Text and audio commentaries can be sent to comments@flashpulp.com – but be aware that it may appear in the FlashCast.

– and thanks to you, for reading. If you enjoyed the story, tell your friends.

Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode three hundred and fifty-four.

Tonight we present Mulligan Smith in The Seven Year Itch
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This week’s episodes are brought to you by Nutty Bites

 

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, Mulligan Smith, PI, finds himself dealing with a randy sidekick, illegal chemistry, and a burning secret.

 

Mulligan Smith in The Seven Year Itch

Written by J.R.D. Skinner
Art and Narration by Opopanax
and Audio produced by Jessica May

 

It was one of Mulligan’s least favourite sort of conversations, and Billy Winnipeg’s attempts at being smooth weren’t helping.

There were six people around the table: Smith’s towering companion, Chester and Eleanor Rice, Darnell and Charlene Byrd, and the PI himself.

Eleanor was the client, but the increasingly confused Charlene was the target of Winnipeg’s preoccupation.

Before Billy could repeat his line about women aging like fine cheese, Smith said, “what we have here is an embarrassment of tantalizing facts, right?

“Drugs, jets, 4am phone calls, thick-armed tough guys – it should add up to something fun, but it doesn’t. A lack of honesty has to go and ruin it all.

“For example: Ladies, did you know that your husbands are oblivious to the fact that you suffer infrequent yeast infections? Chester, were you aware that Eleanor stumbled onto the pharmacy you’d hidden in the bottom of the linen closet? Darnell, do you realize how scared Charlene has been for you?”

Mulligan had already charged Eleanor’s credit card, but his client’s demand that all involved meet simultaneously to hear the results of his investigation had given him an opportunity to indulge in a greasy toasted Western at Martha’s, and, as much as he hated the nature of the discussion, he was determined to draw out the truth long enough to prevent his discoveries from disrupting his meal.

Around a mouthful of omelette and white bread the detective said, “for my money, if you’re not in a relationship that can divulge the unfortunate stuff you’re not in a relationship at all.”

Billy nodding, added, “I’m an open book.”

His understanding eyes lingered on Charlene.

With a wince, Smith lifted his phone and scrolled through his notes.

“So,” he said, “on the eighteenth of last month Eleanor finds a little blue lunchbox beneath the ugly backup guest sheets, and is startled to discover a couple of unlabeled prescription bottles and a baggie full of pills within. Being a primary school math teacher, and the sort of person who gets nervous even when just being approached by traffic cops, she freaks out.

“Between Pinot Noir, online early childhood development forums, and her crafting groups, she’s not generally the type to spend a lot of time reflecting – but she starts connecting the dots.

“There were Chet’s trips to San Jose every few months for ‘work,’ the new password lock on his phone, and the gifts: Designer sweaters, sleek necklaces, chunky rings.

“Logically – as she saw it – she assumed he’d fallen in with a Mexican drug cartel.”

Chester shifted, pulling his blazer jacket tight to his thin chest. He sighed.

Before the silence forced him into saying something more, however, Mulligan saved him from having to make a reply.

“Despite her small town upbringing and deep moral fiber, Eleanor didn’t want to rat on her husband. She also wasn’t sure if her suspicions were correct. That’s where I came in.

“Backtracking from Chester’s meticulously filed San Jose receipts I came up with a consistent name co-insured for the rental cars: Darnell Byrd.

“Better yet I discovered that, though Mr. Byrd also spends a lot of time in San Jose, he too happens to live north of the city. I dropped in to meet him in person, but he was out for the day.

“Still, his lovely wife, Charlene, greeted me at the door and it required very little fishing regarding San Jose to get her talking about her own problems.

“Her husband had been receiving cell calls that left him stressed. When they rang he would depart the room, and all she could hear of the conversations were hushed and aggravated tones. He tried to keep it cool when he came back in, but he really only leans in to kiss her like that when she’s sad, it’s her birthday, or it’s one of those calls.

“Some snooping on Charlene’s part had figured that the numbers all originated from a San Jose area code.

“Worse, a month earlier a large man in a thick leather jacket had parked a chopper in the yard and marched his black bike chaps to the door. He’d looked annoyed when she answered his knock, and he’d just grunted when she told him Darnell wasn’t in.

“As he pulled out, however, she noticed that he had California plates.

“At this point in our talk it became clear the pressure had been building a while. The tale started pouring out.

“She doesn’t even really love Darnell anymore. He’s a good man but it feels like their lives are going in different directions. She’s staying with him because she’s so afraid he’s gotten himself into something he can’t handle.

“She didn’t know who or why, but she figured Darnell must owe someone in San Jose a solid chunk of change.”

Throughout the explanation Darnell’s face had appeared to be made of neutral stone, but his lower lip was now slowly disappearing beneath his upper teeth.

Across the table, Billy threw a compassionate shake of his head in now-blushing Charlene’s direction. Smith’s eyes ground against the roof of their sockets.

The PI continued.

“So, before taking on the glamorous expense of flying to San Jose, I took on the considerably less glamorous job of combing through your trash cans. You know what I found?

“Yeast infections.

“A few phone calls, and a bit of online prying, and suddenly everything was obvious.

“Drugs, hard men, coastal California – it can sound black and white, but, when a possibly coincidental shared STD entered the picture, I realized it added a whole rainbow of colours to the case.”

Pausing, Mulligan pushed the final corner of toast into his mouth – then, swallowing, he said, “male yeast infections are rare, but they happen. Untreated I suspect you could be passing it back and forth for quite a while. Might I suggest that the reported infrequency of both couple’s sex lives coincides with the infrequency of Eleanor and Charlene’s embarrassing problems?

“Might I also suggest that you gents do the respectful thing and take down your supposedly anonymous Grindr accounts until you’re properly into divorce proceedings?”

Martha, taking the silence that followed to mean the meal had ended, approached to ask about the bill.

“Split six ways, I think,” replied Smith, as Charlene’s still-stunned gaze bounced between the waitress and the detective.

After another quiet beat, Billy cleared his throat and said, “actually, I’ll cover her’s.”

 

Flash Pulp is presented by https://www.skinner.fm, and is released under the Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 3.0 Unported License.

Intro and outro work provided by Jay Langejans of The New Fiction Writers podcast.

Freesound.org credits:

Text and audio commentaries can be sent to comments@flashpulp.com – but be aware that it may appear in the FlashCast.

– and thanks to you, for reading. If you enjoyed the story, tell your friends.

Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode three hundred and fifty.

Tonight we present Mulligan Smith in Trial and Error
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This week’s episodes are brought to you by Talk Nerdy 2 Me

 

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, Mulligan Smith, PI, finds himself matching wits with an apparent psychic.

 

Regulations

Written by J.R.D. Skinner
Art and Narration by Opopanax
and Audio produced by Jessica May

 

Mulligan straightened his tie and shifted his weight to his left hip in an effort to make the joyless wooden chair more bearable.

The courtroom’s air conditioning was running at a blast that had the smattering of retirees in the gallery whispering complaints about frostbite, but the private investigator considered the inside of his black wool suit an oven. Smith had hated formal wear since his mother had first forced him into a double-breasted vest for his sixth grade Christmas pageant.

Glibert March, the defense attorney, was a suspenders snapper, and his slow pacing around his desktop’s worth of handwritten notes had given Mulligan plenty of time to bake.

It was little help that the faux-wood-paneled room had had a printed sign taped to the door insisting on no outside food or beverages. The cherry slurpee the detective had abandoned, he reflected, would have brought down his temperature as well as help wet his increasingly arid throat.

Finally, rocking back on his heels, the white-haired lawyer asked, “is it true that you hold a vendetta against psychics, sir?”

Smith shrugged. “Well, it’s true that I’ve run across a few, and that it doesn’t usually end well for them, but it’s mostly just that occasionally I get lucky and stumble across work that isn’t a husband with loose pants or an insurance fraud gig. I don’t have anything against kleptomaniacs either, unless they steal something.”

The red and white elastics holding up March’s pants were made taut by their owner’s thumbs.

“My understanding is that your client has given mine a full apology? Mrs. Helms certainly doesn’t seem to think he’s guilty.”

Wilbur Underwood, the defendant and a man with a mall Santa’s smile and beard, nodded emphatically at his counsel.

“My client,” answered Mulligan, “is under the mistaken impression that her dead mother is upset with her for having caused a fuss. She refuses to say where she got the notion, but I don’t think it takes a telepath to guess.”

March smirked and asked, “isn’t it also true that she feels you did nothing and refuses to settle your invoice? Could it simply be the case that you’re bitter at the loss of a paycheck?”

“We’re here in a criminal court because Capital City’s finest deemed it necessary to get Mr. Underwood off the street and away from the old ladies he was bilking. Do I like Wilbur? No, but it has little to do with the meals I’ll be missing and more to do with his lying, cheating, robbery, misrepresentation, and extortion.”

The pseudo-Santa snorted an outraged, “Ho!”

“Save it for the Ramones, pal,” answered Smith. “Let me be clear as to why I’m here: We’re talking about a grown man who loafs around his half-million-dollar condo until lonely people with emotional issues punch their credit card numbers into his automatic billing system and his phone rings. Maybe they miss a dead loved one, maybe they’re fretting over their own mortality, maybe they’re just lonely – whatever the case, they give Underwood a call and he answers with that soft burr of a grandpa voice.

“I can almost forgive him for the solitary folks – he’s getting paid, sure, but at least he’s keeping them company for the money. Even the usual ‘did you have a loved one who died of cancer? Was there an ‘E’ in their name?’ stuff is relatively harmless, if expensive.

“No, it’s the house setup that gets me. His ‘vision walks’ in which he asks the poor schmuck to picture their home.

“We’re at the front door,’ he says, ‘push it open. I’m in your mind with you, but to keep our connection strong you should tell me what you see. What are the things that matter most to you here – how do you see them? WHERE do you see them?’

“Ten minutes later they’re telling him about how sad Grandma’s string of pearls makes them, or how they still worry about the fight they had over the jade family heirloom they once had appraised on the Antiques Roadshow.”

“You’re well aware that it’s part of his technique,” answered March, “he asks it of nearly all his clients.”

“Yeah, and I wonder how annoyed he gets if all they focus on are family albums? Probably not as annoyed as the people who discover, a few weeks after they’ve hopefully forgotten the details of their session, that they’ve suffered a strangely precise B&E – and wouldn’t you know it, the object of their anxiety is no longer there. Is that how you allegedly better your client’s lives, Mr. Underwood?”

There was a legal scrimmage then, between the prosecutor, the judge, and the now red faced March. Mulligan regretted that it meant more time in the suit, but, before he could inquire about locating a turkey baster, the low murmuring broke up and details were deemed stricken from the record.

Again calm, the defense lawyer rolled back in his loafers and continued his interrogation.

His tone, however, had gained a hint of righteousness.

“You’re telling me you’ve come in here in your twenty dollar suit to shake down this poor man on the basis of a series of unfortunate coincidences?

“Wilbur’s generosity is well known throughout his neighbourhood. When he hired me on I was invited to a party in his home that seemed brimming with good cheer and friends who he had only helped better. ”

The lawyer’s voice grew hushed and thick. “You do not trust his line of work? Fine, but you cannot deny that it brings a certain whimsy and warmth to the lives of those he touches. A little something more – you might even say, a little something otherworldly?”

The private investigator’s eyes briefly widened, and he asked, “you seriously believe in him, don’t you?”
“Listen, I don’t care what Underwood does to make himself feel better, but I believe you when you tell me that he holds parties after ‘allegedly’ doing things like pawning Mrs. Helms’ dead sister’s earrings.

“You implied I was wasting my client’s money during the weeks I was following Underwood on his errands – well, let me tell you about an incident I witnessed just before things really hit the fan.”

“I don’t think -” began March, but Mulligan interrupted:

“It involves a Horizon Blue 1960 Corvette convertible.”

Smith paused then, yet his inquisitor simply raised his left brow and sent his thumbs in search of his released suspenders.

The detective tugged at his tie and began. “I had trailed Wilbur to a Whole Foods, which was weird for a bunch of reasons, including that it was on the far side of town from where he usually bought groceries, and that he rarely seemed to cook anything beyond those oven mini-pizzas anyhow.

“Wilbur is an eatin’ out kinda guy.

“Anyhow, it was maybe 8:30PM and a beautiful evening; warm with a hint of a breeze, and exactly the sort of night a classic car nut waits for to cruise with the top down.

“Even though the lot was mostly empty the Corvette was parked way back from the lights to keep it safe from being dinged by a rushing soccer mom’s minivan. Fifteen minutes after our arrival, Mr. Corvette returns with a bag in one hand and his keys in the other.

“From a few rows behind him, Grampy Underwood steps forward shouting, ‘sir, sir!’

“The shopper turns, but Wilbur gives him a worried look and rushes right past.

“As the mock psychic hustles around the ‘vette’s trunk a hooligan of maybe eighteen suddenly jumps up wearing full action-flick-burglar duds, balaclava included, and sprints away while trying to tuck a lock jimmy into his pants.

“Nothing’s actually happened of course, but the owner says, ‘wow, you’ve saved me from a world of despair.’

“‘Sometimes I get certain – feelings -’ replies Underwood, already starting into his patter.

“The whole arrangement cost him a hundred bucks, a free reading for a store clerk he knew, and a bit of internet research. I know because I was a half-block back when Underwood originally picked the masked kid up, and later on I had to offer twice as much to get the little bugger to narc on him.

”What I really want to know, though, is how long it took Wilbur to mention he needed a lawyer, and how big a discount he talked you into for supposedly saving your roadster, Mr. March?”

It would be the end of the detective’s testimony, but the remainder of the trial did not go well for Underwood.

 

Flash Pulp is presented by https://www.skinner.fm, and is released under the Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 3.0 Unported License.

Freesound.org credits:

Text and audio commentaries can be sent to comments@flashpulp.com – but be aware that it may appear in the FlashCast.

– and thanks to you, for reading. If you enjoyed the story, tell your friends.

Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode three hundred and forty-eight.

Tonight we present Mulligan Smith in Wants & Needs
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This week’s episodes are brought to you by Talk Nerdy 2 Me!

 

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 our private investigator finds himself entering a den of iniquity with questions on his tongue.

 

Mulligan Smith in Wants & Needs

Written by J.R.D. Skinner
Art and Narration by Opopanax
and Audio produced by Jessica May

 

It wasn’t Mulligan’s favourite sort of place, but he was a man who believed deeply in an answer to every need – even if that need was not his own.

The Hungry Lion was situated in a former Chinese buffet that had had its windows blacked out by thick red curtains. The parking lot was well paved and the cement walkways leading to the disreputable business had clearly been recently refinished.

“Let me tell you about needs, Leo,” Mulligan was saying as he pushed his companion’s wheelchair along the ramp to the Lions curb. “The guy who runs this dimly lit cabaret needs to be at the center of things.

“Sure, the cash is good – he once told me that he even operates Seated Sundays as a non-profit charity, then rents himself the building for the write off – but I happen to be pretty familiar with Murray, and I know he must have been the sort of kid who grew up at the edge of every game of spin the bottle, of every pool party, of every prom. You know the type: In all the stories, but never the main player. He wasn’t the big chinned jock, the smart one, or, frankly, any of the Breakfast Club characters – but he does have The Hungry Lion.”

As he had repeatedly since first being fetched for this interview, Leo gave a mildly confused “huh” of agreement.

They pushed through the darkened glass doors and the first wave of bass hit their ears.

“Everyone needs a place,” Smith continued as he pulled open the interior entrance.

The darkness inside meant Leo’s unadjusted eyes could see only the woman writhing in the spotlight. She was wearing a pair of purple booty shorts, a Hello-Kitty-as-samurai tattoo, and a “Hello, My Name Is…” sticker over her heart that had had ‘Anya’ written in with a thick black sharpie – and nothing more.

“Anya, for instance,” said Smith, “is a nice lady who had the misfortune to fall for a jackass in a polo shirt that left her to raise twins on her own. She’s as sweet a human as you’ll ever meet, but she doesn’t like math and her winning smile made her teachers soft on her.

“She’ll be damned if she’ll let her kids starve, and, besides, she likes making people happy.

“It’s like I was saying: Everyone needs a place, even if that place has a bad rep.”

As he seemed to be hypnotized by Anya’s rhythmic swaying, the PI could no longer tell if his seated companion was paying him any attention. Approaching a round brown-topped table at the approximate center of the room, Mulligan was sure, at least, that he had not noticed the fact that the rest of the dozen or so patrons were also chair-bound though no seating had been supplied by the establishment.

After three minutes more of a White Zombie remix, Leo finally turned back to his apparent inquisitor.

“Uh, you’re from Haymaker right?” he asked, “so what’s up with this place?”

“You’re not listening, Leo,” Smith replied. “Everyone needs a place. This one is Seated Sundays.

“Most of these mooks paying too much for pitchers of domestic draft are injured vets who’ve come back from the war. It may surprise you to hear, but it can be tough for a paraplegic to get a girlfriend when buried in medical debts and suffering from the occasional bout of PTSD.

“That doesn’t mean they don’t need a little tender attention though. That’s how Murray got his idea for the charity, Seated Sundays. No cover charge for anyone in a rolling recliner, and a free lap dance for those who can show their dog tags. Donations are always welcome though, as Murray would gladly tell you.”

Leo’s too-small eyes grew closer together. “You brought me down here to pass the hat for a strip joint? Uh, thanks.”

Smith shrugged. “I wasn’t lying to you when I said I wanted to interview you on behalf of your insurance company, but, as you you’ve probably figured out, I’m no suit juggling actuary tables – but, hold on a sec, here comes a friend of mine, One Leg Mick.”

Having spotted the hoodied PI, the man with the lone lower limb had launched himself in their direction with sturdy arms. His high-speed stop was sudden, and spoke of long practiced braking.

“Hey, Mick, I was just telling my pal here about miracle flights,” Mulligan offered as his hello.

“Miracle flights?” asked Leo. His confused squint had only strained further at the newcomer’s appearance, but, as Anya pranced from the stage, his attention was again absorbed by the announced arrival of Veronika.

Despite the distraction, Mick said, “Hell, used to happen constantly when I worked at the airport, especially when security started ratcheting up.

“‘Miracle Flights’ are what the cabin crew called ‘em. Some frequent flyer who knows the system claims they need a wheelchair from the airport. They’re rolled on by the flight attendant, but somehow they walk out cured. Hell, where was that sort of healthcare when I came back from the war? Ha!”

“Huh?” asked Leo.

“It’s for priority seating,” answered Smith. “They fake a condition so they can get on the plane ahead of the rabble.”

Without warning the detective had Leo’s full focus.

“Everyone needs a place in the world,” Mulligan repeated to him. “You should’ve done some research. Your paperwork states your spinal cord injury – your SCI – is complete. Do you know what that means?”

“I can’t play badminton and Haymaker owes me an ass-ton of money?”

“Yeah, and it pays out better than being SCI incomplete, but it also means you shouldn’t be so pleased to see Anya and Veronika. Actually, these folks are all SCI incomplete – it’s the fellas with totally severed nerves who have trouble, uh, raising the flag in salute.”

Veronika swung wide on the pole, her thighs slowing her descent to the floor.

Red faced, Leo’s forearms dropped to his lap for as much coverage as possible, but One Leg, his smile now a sneer, backed away and returned to the group in fatigues that he’d left at his own table.

Smith, however, was not done: “What bothers me isn’t just that you’re taking money from people who need it – no, it’s more direct than that. Your wants give their needs a bad rep.”

As word of the forgery traveled from lips hovering above overpriced beer to ears aching from too-loud grind music, wheels began to align themselves towards the pair.

Mulligan turned, nodded to the DJ, and left to stand on the curb outside.

Veronika did not break her wiggle.

Of course Smith’s client, Haymaker Insurance, couldn’t accept an errant erection as proof of a fraudulent claim – but the investigator’s hastily snapped cellphone pictures showing Leo sprinting from the strip club ahead of a mob of angry ex-military men would certainly serve.

 

Flash Pulp is presented by https://www.skinner.fm, and is released under the Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 3.0 Unported License.

Freesound.org credits:

Text and audio commentaries can be sent to comments@flashpulp.com – but be aware that it may appear in the FlashCast.

– and thanks to you, for reading. If you enjoyed the story, tell your friends.