O' Halloran: Murder with a Capital Punishment - Part 9

Written by Jesus Budda

Monday, 7 December 2009


The story you are trying to access may cause offense, may be in poor taste, or may contain subject matter of a graphic nature. This story was written as a satire or parody. It is entirely fictitious.

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All Chapters: Part 1|Part 2|Part 3|Part 4|Part 5|Part 6|Part 7|Part 8

Part 9

Jesus Christ, this fucking story is dragging on, innit?!!

Right, let's move this sucka along before I die of monotony…

O' Halloran stands in the courtyard before the Bastille.
"This is it, Doris. There's no turning back"

He takes one last look at Doris before dropping his pants, pulling out his todger and wanking over the carefully placed French flag that he's positioned between his legs.

Immediately a crowd gathers. French people are famous for their interest in watching wankers - for reference, please note Thierry Henri).
But once they get close enough to see that the wanking is not being done onto the flag of a nation other than France they protest.

"Send him to the Bastille!", shouts one old toothless woman who could possibly be Carla Bruni.

"Off with his head!", screams another pretentious little fucker munching on garlic.

The Bastille guards surround O' Halloran and take him by the arms and legs.
"Farewell, Doris! Wish me luck", O' Halloran calls out as he is dragged away deep inside the grey stone building.

Doris waves a relatively clean handkerchief at him as tears well up in her eyes.
"Au revoir, O' Halloran. I will wait for you".

* * *

O' Halloran is tossed inside a darkened dungeon (are there any other kinds?), where he falls in a heap on the filthy bare ground.
"Yooo, weeeeel be executed, yooo bastard! Nobody wanks on the flag of France and gets away with it", shouts a surly guard as the heavy wooden door is slammed shut.

O' Halloran picks himself up and dusts himself off and looks around the room.
A stream of light cuts through a small barred window. Something in the far corner catches his eye. It looks like an old rotting skeleton chained to the wall. But O' Halloran looks closer and realises that it is actually just a very skinny naked old man.

"Alright, my son? What you in for?", the old man says in a voice identical to that of Uncle Albert from Only Fools and Horses.

"Wanking on a flag", answers O' Halloran as he motions closer and then sees another two scrawny figures huddled together alongside the old man. Only the old codger is awake.

"Wankin', eh? That's something I wish I could do…", he says sadly as he gestures to his arms which are fastened tightly to the walls.

"What are you in here for?", asks O' Halloran.

"Ipswich Town supporter, son. Wandered into this 'ere alternative reality while n a nighttime stroll. All I wanted was a breath of fresh air and now look at me - condemned to death by a pack of French bastards!".

"I too am from the future and I intend to put an end to this horror"

"Oh, fack that, son! Don't you be botherin' your big fat head with notions of salvation. What's to live for, eh? Ipswich are shit this season. No point stickin' around for that, son. Oh, no. Better off dead, I say", the old man shakes his head.

"The faith of the entire World and every living soul in it rests on my shoulders", O ' Halloran insists.

"We don't need another 'ero, son. Better off as we are. Survival of the fittest, mister Darwin would probably say if 'e were 'ere right now."

"Actually Darwin never said that, old timer. It was some other guy. I can't remember his name", interrupts O' Halloran.

"Listen, son, I don't give a monkey's. I'm grand where I am and I aint movin' nowhere's".

The old man spies a little mouse crawling across the floor towards him and smiles broadly, showing a mouth of dirty brown molars and lots of gum.
"Oh, lookey 'ere. It's me old mate Mousy. 'Allo, Mousy. Come to lick me bolloxs again, 'ave you? Good boy!", he chirps.

O' Halloran grows weary talking to the old idiot and decides to pass the time by having a wank.
He needs to figure out a plan to save the World and he is running short of time.

* * *


The guards return and hoist O' Halloran from the ground.
"Up, yooo! It's time for your execution", says one of the guards as he excorts O' Halloran from the cell.

"Don't you be goin' meddlin' with thing's you don't know nuffin' about, son!", the old man calls out after him as a kind of warning, "Think of Roy Keane, son. Think of his facking useless management…"

O' Halloran is lead down a cold stone corridor passed moaning and groaning prisoners who await their own inevitable deaths. Each and every one is dressed in modern clothes and sometimes an Ipswich Town football shirt (home, away and third in some cases).
And each and every one of them says the same thing as the old man: "Let us die, son. We're better off dead than not 'avin' an 'ope of gaining promotion to the Premiership!".

As O' Halloran is led back out into the courtyard through the thronging crowds and up onto the scaffold on which rests Madame Guillotine, he can't help wondering what to do.
He sees the basket into which the decapitated heads tumble and located deep inside he sees a flashing green light - it must be the control for the time machine.

Amongst the angry mob one welcome voice is heard above all others.
"O' Halloran, I loooove yooooo!", yells Doris sweetly.

Now he has a dilemma. One the one hand, the future of civilisation depends on him; on the other, a bunch of homeless men and disgruntled football supporters who want to die rather than facing another shitty day of the misery we call life.

He has a quick fumble in his pants to relieve the strain. This existential crap is too much for a lowly, blue-collar guy like him.

What to do?
It is a choice to big for a simple man like O' Halloran.
It is a choice only a noble, intelligent, deep-thinking individual can make.

The choice, my dear reader, is up to you!

Choose which path you wish our intrepid wanking crime fighter should take:



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

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