O' Halloran - Murder with a Capital Punishment - Part 1

Funny story written by Jesus Budda

Monday, 23 November 2009


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'Fans' (I use the term very, very loosely) of PsychoTown will be delighted to catch up on the further adventures of grizzled wanking cop O' Halloran as he once again embarks on another...er, adventure.

Part 1

Located between the local junior motorcycle club headquarters and a branch of Saucy Annie's Strip Joint, The Blue Oyster Bar's blue neon sign fizzes and splutters like the headlamp on a pensioner's antique bicycle. Inside a jukebox plays on rotation a Frankie Goes To Hollywood album.
A few drunken barflies slouch across the shiny metal bar counter nursing cocktails with such exotic names as 'Blowjob' and 'Anal Fisting'.
O' Halloran dries a glass off with a soiled cloth and holds it up to the feint natural daylight which trickles through the hole in the wall where some rowdy biker boys got in a spot of bother last night.
It's been seven years since the whole seven-foot woman case. Seven long years since he handed in his badge and left the force. The stress of not solving that case and then losing his beloved donkey Bilbo Baggins, in a bizarre bestiality cult incident involving the local girl guides, really fucked up his head. He couldn't think, he couldn't sleep he couldn't focus on anything. He needed out.

And there was his dream: the Blue Oyster Bar. But a dream that becomes reality is like taking a shit in space: it feels so damn good to think about but when it happens it goes all messy and requires vacuum suction and a whole lot of trouble.

And trouble O' Halloran got - in spades. He bought the bar with the small pension he received for his years of service. That was the easy part. He did it up just like he had dreamed while having a wank on his bed: the Frankie Goes to Hollywood jukebox; the toilet cubicles without any doors; the Hollywood celebrities who would flock to the place confident of a good shag.
It was all in place but he hadn't bet on Steve Guttenburg.
Fucking Steve Guttenburg sued him over the use of the name. Claimed it was his because of the shitty Police Academy film. How could a former cop on a former cop's pension compete with a really shit Hollywood actor who starred in a series of increasingly unfunny and crap movies? The answer was he couldn't. The case was bleeding him as dry as a wet shit in a desert.

The door opens and a figure enters and sits at the bar.
"What'll it be?", asks O' Halloran, his back to the figure.

"A titty fuck with a slice of lemon".

O' Halloran turns around shapely. He recognises that voice.
"Robo female cop!", he says surprised.

"The one and only", she grins back, "been a long time, Detective".

"I'm a civilian now, sweet cheeks. Just a regular citizen struggling to make ends meat in Psychotown", he says in a low voice.

He slaps her glass of titty fuck on the counter. She watches the cream slide down to the navel …of the glass.
"What has you stopping 'round this part of town?", he asks.

"Can't a girl drop by an old friend for a titty fuck?", she replies, chugging down the drink whole.

A small boy in an electric wheelchair whizzes up to the counter, bumps against it, gains control and speaks:
"Another, my good man", he says in a squeaky voice.

"One raging homosexual coming up, Tiny Tim", O' Halloran answers.

"Robo female cop whispers across to O' Halloran: "are you sure that's wise? He's just a little kid".

"Oh, it's ok. Tiny Timmy here has only got 24 hours to live. Why shouldn't he enjoy all life's pleasures before he croaks it?"

O' Halloran pours some methadone into a metal mixer. He then shakes in some LSD tabs, a couple of ounces of cocaine, some hash followed by some crushed ecstasy tablets, then gives it a little shake and hands it to Timmy.
The boy gulps it down in one mouthful, his eyes roll back in his head and a wide grin cuts across his freckled face.

O' Halloran turns back to the robo female cop.
"You wouldn't come down here unless you wanted something. What's the deal, sweet tits? Spill it"

She flicks back her hair and speaks in a barely audible whisper to O' Halloran, careful not to let the other half-dozen patrons (and Timmy) overhear their conversation.

"There's something in the sewers of Psychotown. Something that is making people disappear. Hobo's, transients, Ipswich Town football supporters…all vanishing without a trace. I need your help on this one, O' Halloran."

"I gave up that game years ago, baby. I aint cut out for police work. What makes you think I could help? I'm just a shmoe with bad breath, a drinking problem, flatulence, hairy nostrils, a bad back, mild psoriasis on my left ass cheek and man breasts"

She touches him on the hand.
"That's why I need you. You're just a regular guy. You can blend in. All the new cops are young and fresh and handsome. They couldn't go undercover. They all look like university graduates in ancient literature and the arts. They are useless. I need a real man. A man who has all the shitty traits of a regular guy. I need you"

"I got the bar to run and this whole thing with Steve Guttenburg is messing me up something bad…"

"What if I can make it all go away?"

"I'm listening".

"I know where Guttenburg lives. You help me out and I could make a call and he'd be out of your hair for good".

O' Halloran considers the proposition carefully and strokes his stubble.
"I fucked up so many people in this town. They'd never take me back as a detective. Do you know how many innocent people I've accidentally shot, stabbed or set on fire? And that's not counting the innocent one's I deliberately shot, stabbed or set on fire.."

"You wouldn't be a detective. You'd be working undercover for me and answerable only to me".

"Shee-it! Now this is a real role reversal, baby. Would I get a gun? And a trench coat?"

"Of course. You can have all the guns and trench coats that you want. You can even have a gun made out of trench coats or a trench coat made of lots and lots of little, tiny guns"

O' Halloran suddenly vaults the bar counter and lands on the other side. He puts his hand in the robo female cops'>
"It's a deal", he laughs, unable to contain his excitement at being back at what he does worst!

He takes off his apron and tosses it over to Tiny Tim. It lands on the inebriated (and tripping!) boy's head.

"Take care of the place for me, Timmy. I'll be back at 8pm".

The robo female cop checks her watch.
"But it's 8.05pm now", she says.

"Oh, shit", O' Halloran says checking his own watch and realising that it had stopped hours ago.
He turns to the sickly cripple boy and pats him on the shoulder
"Sorry, Timmy, looks like my watch was slow. 'Fraid you don't have those 24 hours left to live. So long, Timmy"

With that, O' Halloran and his old partner strut out of the joint as Frankie Goes To Hollywoods classic 'Two Tribes' begins another run on the jukebox.

Behind them Tiny Tim slumps lifelessly in his tiny wheelchair.

Continue to Chapter 2

The funny story above is a satire or parody. It is entirely fictitious.

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