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January 26, 2015 / hbrowne4

The Adventures of Mickey Mikey McIrishman Murphy By Noel Cahill

Mickey Mikey McIrishman Murphy was not grand when he woke at the top of the morning. There came a noise that, figuratively, not literally, chopped his ear off. A maternal get-up-you’re-late-for-school siren startled Mickey as if he were rocketing down a fun-slide in the Pleasureland of Galwank Shitty.

On his lap there sat a non-descript blackish bag stamped with a white € sign. Inside, there suitably slept neat, tidy fifty euro notes, crisp and reeking of European unity. Strangely, ha, or perhaps not, Mickey wore a dazzling pink top of the female persuasion and a see-through pair of over-sized leopard-print knickers.

Mikey was a fine lad, no harm in him, no. He saw the police vehicle in front of the car that he occupied. Up he got, out he got, ready to return and explain. Whatever had happened, running away would do more harm than good. Mickey drunkenly danced from the car, his hands shot to the world’s ceiling as the roasted little piggies’ oven doors spluttered into the street and sidewalk respectively. Then, shockingly (just when you thought it etc.) two persons accosted him: Mr. Predictable and Mrs. Plot Development. They whispered on either side of him in either ear.

Mikey Mickey Murphy McIrishman’s posture changed, his neck rose like a Grand Canal swan, he seized the € bag and found a gun in his pocket, oh yes. He outed the gun and roared like a roach in the direction of the Galtee rashers. Horribly guttural noises sprang from his hole: “Prjitels mch nainze fur znamky fa durst klinns.” The gun, now a shotgun, was fired in a ridiculous manner, wounding the little pigs’ house-on-wheels.

Mickey Murphy McIrishman Mikey was all changed. He stood seven foot-or-feet tall; hair burgeoning from his oiled chest; his jeans were ripped; a shamrock tattoo fell from his eyes; his face was now devoid of its previously acidic ginger infection; his stomach transformed into a bubble-wrap, chocolate-bar, Byzantine six-pack of the Irish Saviour.

He dashed away, spewing more incomprehensible shite in the runts’ direction. Mr. Predictable and Mrs. Plot Development followed in George-W-Bush-uncrashable segways, whispering plotty instructions to M.M.M.M. But then suddenly there was, no. An Icelandic post-rock rock group tailed them in a gorgeous Guinness float, churning out obscure, tense music from their latest.

Mrs. Plot Development sped ahead of Mikey, metamorphosing into a buxom damsel in distress (fuelling stereotypes for years to come), she fell from her segway and lay on the road ahead, bleeding from the right temple. Her legs and breasts were exposed by Mr.Predictable’s otherworldly whisperings. Loud noises boomed about, a donkey or an ass, some ambiguous creature, none the less, was charging at Mrs. P Development. This creature foamed at the mouth and stretched out it’s goose-step legs in the direct of Mrs. P.D. who screamed in apt hysteria. The donkey-ass was going to crush the blonde or brunette or black-haired bombshell (it hardly matters).

Mikey McIrishman Murphy Mickey disregarded the bag of €s and made a tense look in Mrs. Plot D.’s direction. He ran to save her. He did. They eloped. They kissed and fucked and then he said something sexist to the camera.

The End.

Roll credits as you leave.

©  Noel Cahill 2015

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