Questions and Answers (with Ronaldo and Paris Hilton)

Me: This week on Questions and Answers, former Taoiseach Bertie Ahern…
Bertie Ahern: Good evening.
Me:…socialite and heiress Paris Hilton…
Paris Hilton: Hi.
Me:…Sinn Féin president Gerry Adams…
Gerry Adams: Oiche mhaith.
Me:…and world footballer of the year, Cristiano Ronaldo…
Ronaldo: Ola.

Me: We’ll begin with the economy. Should the government consider a property tax? Ronaldo?
Ronaldo: Yes?
Me: A property tax?
Ronaldo: Yes.

(Audience applause)

Me: Beautifully put.
Gerry Adams: Now hold on. Mr Ronaldo can swan in here with all his populist propaganda…
Ronaldo: Popu…popuganda?
Gerry Adams:…but I don’t think the Irish taxation system is any business of a Johnny Foreigner.
Ronaldo: Is true. I’m notta Irish.

(Audience gasp)

Gerry Adams: How would you feel if I showed up in Portugal, shouting the odds?
Ronaldo: With that beard? You would be a god to my people. Men and women would make-a love to you day and night. Virgins would trim your beard as you slept, and slaves would tend to your pubes while you bathed in the semen of dolphins.
Me: Jaysus.
Bertie Ahern: Jaysus.
Gerry Adams: Why is he looking at me like that?

(Audience member coughs. A mobile phone begins ringing and is instantly silenced)

Me: Eh…Em…Bertie. Property tax?
Bertie Ahern: Wella, I…I do believe that all…all the options should be…be considered, because…
Paris Hilton: This is absurd.
Bertie Ahern: Now hold on, I didn’t interrupt you….
Paris Hilton: You cannot tax your way out of a recession.
Bertie Ahern: Well…well, in desperate times, you have to…
Paris Hilton: No, no, no. It’s kindergarten economics. Increasing taxes shackles market forces. It has failed as a policy time and time again: Norway in 1942, China in 76, Argentina in 79. The great Jean Baptiste Colbert said “The art of taxation consists of plucking the goose to obtain the largest amount of feathers with the smallest amount of hissing.” Obviously it sounds more eloquent in French.

(Audience applause)

Me: So what would you do, in Brian Cowen’s shoes?
Paris Hilton: If I was Taoiseach of this beer-soaked shit hole?

(Audience gasp)

Gerry Adams: Now hold on young lady….
Paris Hilton: I’d trim the public sector work force by a third, disband the quangos, and borrow money to invest in market stimulus initiatives.
Ronaldo: I wanna make-a sweet, sweet love to you.
Paris Hilton: Not now.
Ronaldo: I was notta talkin to you.
Gerry Adams: Tell the dark fella to stop making the eyes at me.

(Audience member exclaims “Jaysus”. Another audience member coughs)

Me: This is getting weird.
Gerry Adams: Then get a hold of things. That’s your job.

Me: Let’s move onto reports of a raid on the offices of Michael Jackson’s doctor. Why is the public thirst for Jackson news so unyielding? Bertie, you met the man in 2003?
Bertie Ahern: That’s correct, yes, we….we held a state dinner in Mr Jackson’s honour. A wonderful, wonderful man.
Me: I believe he tried to teach you the moonwalk?
Bertie Ahern: He did, yes.
Me: And you broke both your legs? Or was it just one?
Bertie Ahern: No, it was both legs, yes. Certainly, a far…far more difficult dance than it looks. I actually swallowed my tongue on the last attempt, and it was…was only when I got to the hospital that they realised that my…my legs were actually broken.

Me: Fascinating. And I presume Jackson visited you in hospital?
Bertie Ahern: No, he…he had a prior engagement. He did send his personal assistant though, and Bubbles the chimp.
Me: That was nice of him.
Bertie Ahern: It was, though the monkey did attack me. I had to beat it away with me bedpan.
Me: Jesus, that must have been terrible.
Bertie Ahern: Ah, ‘twas only a few scratches. Nothing compared to what it did to the poor kids in the children’s’ ward. Never seen so much blood.

Me: Paris, what do you make of the media coverage?
Paris Hilton: Of Michael Jackson?
Me: Yes.
Paris Hilton: I think it’s disgusting. Iraq, Afghanistan and global recession have all been relegated to the middle pages. I renounce this puerile society. I absent myself from it. Shame on you. Shame on you all.

(Audience applause)

Paris Hilton: Well, don’t applaud me. I’m attacking you, you bog-brained Murphys.

(Audience member shouts “fuck you”)

Paris Hilton: You wish.
Ronaldo: I don’t. Too smooth around the chin. Not enough beard, eh my friend?
Gerry Adams: Take your hand off my leg.
Bertie Ahern: Mother of divine Jaysus.
Gerry Adams: You have three seconds to take your hand off my leg.
Me: Em…that’s all we have time for tonight unfortunately…
Gerry Adams: ….two….
Me:…I’d like to thank my guests, Paris Hilton, Bertie Ahern, Cristiano Ronaldo and Gerry Adams…
Gerry Adams:….one….
Me: ….Thank you, and good night.


(Audience gasp)

Me: Ah Jaysus. Ah Christ, he’s out cold. Tony, ring an ambulance. Tell them we have a man unconscious. He’s been stitched a loaf.
Paris Hilton: Wow. Mr Adams. I never knew you could be so….militant.
Gerry Adams: Get your coat love.

Readers' Mailbag: Michael Jackson, Bill Clinton and Dealing with Hobos

I hear you were a qualified doctor in the 60s. If medicine is a vocation, why did you stop practising?


It was simple maths Dorothy. A medical review board determined that patients were sixty-five times more likely to die in my care than another doctor’s. Remember, this was pre-Shipman; these days I’d undoubtedly be arrested on suspicion of mass murder.

Was I purposely killing patients? I don’t know. Maybe a few towards the end, but it’s so long ago now I honestly can’t remember. In my defence, I was prescribing myself all sorts of painkillers and whacky potions back then.

Truthfully, my retirement was no great loss to medicine. I earned my degree in eighteen days under the tutelage of some quack called Doctor NaHyarnfinin (pronounced as spelt) in Papua New Guinea.

“Flann, we can’t save them all,” he used to say.

“I understand Doctor NaHyarnfinin,” I’d reply, “but can’t we save some of them?”

“No,” he’d say. “No we can’t.”

Hey Essay,

I have ten keys, just like ju wanted. This shit is the bomb, not like that Venezuelan junk. Ju got the money?


I’ve got the money. How do I know you’ve got the stuff?

I saw you in Dublin city last Friday night. Jaysus, you’ve some temper on you Flann,


I overreacted Donal. But I’m tired. Tired of not being able to walk across the Ha’Penny bridge without being accosted by a beggar. Was I short with her? Hands up, yes I was. Ordinarily I’d mind my manners with a frail, elderly vagrant. Was I wrong to hoist her over my head and turf her into The Liffey? Undoubtedly. The fall alone could have killed her, and it’s difficult to swim fully-clothed.

Was it going too far to stamp on her fingers as she tried to claw herself from the river? Who’s to say? The real villain here is the government. They’re the callous bastards who won’t legislate to help these peasants out of the gutter.

If every citizen scooped up their nearest bum and lobbed them into a dangerous body of water, maybe homelessness and poverty would gain a few column inches over your Peter Andres and your Snoop Diddy Doggies.

No, no. Don’t brand me a hero. The real hero is the lady I half-drowned. She’s the one in a coma. All I’ve done is highlight an issue. Save your medal. Better yet, sell it, and use the shillings to buy some reeking hobo a pair of thermal Y-Fronts for winter. I just want to make a difference.

What the?


I’m going to need more information Mike. Something has obviously shocked you, but damned if I know what.

Having jammed with Michael Jackson in the 80s, were you sorry to see him pass?


Most certainly I was Joanne. I enjoyed a brief fling with La Toya in 1980 (if one can ever truly ‘enjoy’ being violated with a strap-on whilst simultaneously punched in the back of the head), and got to know Michael reasonably well during that time.

Our jam session unfolded in a Motown recording studio, while Michael was still tinkering with the lyrics of his forthcoming hit ‘The Girl is Mine’ (eventually recorded with Sir Paul McCartney). If I recall, the verse…

The Girl Is Mine
The Doggone Girl Is Mine
I Know She’s Mine
Because The Doggone Girl Is Mine

….began life as….

The Girl Is Mine
I’ll harvest her how I see fit
Confidentiality agreements will be signed in triplicate
Because The Doggone Girl Is Mine

I mourn Michael’s loss deeply. As I said with poetic eloquence during my reading at Princess Diana’s funeral, “like candles, we flicker in the wind, the brightest burning for a shorter time.” Then that jackass Elton John wheeled in his Grand Piano and stole all the headlines.

For the last time, keep your bull out of my field. If I catch that scrawny, one-horned beast sniffing around my heifers again, I’ll put a bullet in it.


Your field? That field has been in my family for a thousand years Fionn. I both lost my virginity and found it again in that field (long story). You know well that your snake of a grandfather shifted the stone wall an acre to the East while my grandfather lay dying in the trenches of the Somme, bleeding for his beloved Kaiser.

And if you shoot ‘Ole Unicorn’, so help me, I’ll blow up your house with your family in it. Then I’ll blow up all your neighbours’ houses (excluding mine). I’ll blow up the shop where you buy your groceries. I’ll blow up the church where you worship The Christ God. All you love and know will perish in great mushroom clouds of black vengeance.

See how quickly these things escalate? I suggest you rent the film ‘The Field’ (or go see the play of the same name) for reference.

In chapter four of his autobiography, Bill Clinton called you “…a spineless, Gaelic, reptilian sludge dweller”, and later in chapter six he labelled you “…Satan’s right-hand man and advisor in chief.” Frustratingly, he never explains why he harbours so much ill-will for you. What did you do to him?


Take a photo of Chelsea Clinton and place it on a table. Place a photo of Bill beside it. Compare the profiles for similarities. Now replace the photo of Bill with a photo of me. Again, compare for similarities. Eh? You see? You see? That’s all I’m saying.

Get your shit together man,


Fuck you John. I don’t even know what you’re on about, specifically.

Vito Schillaci

I now present the last page of my Mafia novel ‘Vito Schillaci’. Though critical response was muted when first published in 1987, the mafia did visit my home and beat my grandmother into a coma. I always felt vindicated by their violence. Enjoy!



Flann O’Coonassa

Page 344 of 344

…..buttabing, buttabang, bing-bang, bong-bing, eh?” said Vito.
“He’s right,” replied Tony, rising from his chair and beginning a slow-clap that would quickly gather pace until every crook in the assembly was applauding and cheering. No mobster had ever spoken such eloquence and truth. Grown murderers wept openly. Excited hoodlums fired their weapons into the air (much to the chagrin and death of some upstairs tenants).

Hush was only restored when Don Luigi rose slowly from his seat, chewing a mouthful of salami. Like a Roman emperor deliberating on a gladiator’s faith, nobody ever knew the Don’s mind. He walked to Vito and eyeballed him Italianly. All around fell silent.

The Don lifted his hand and smacked Vito’s cheek playfully, but with enough force to leave an imprint from which a palm reader could easily ply their trade. He then pinched the same cheek with the force of a disgruntled lobster, causing Vito’s eyes to water. Lastly, the Don kissed Vito asexually on the lips for a minute and a half.

“What am I gonna do with this guy, eh? You mamaluke, you.” said The Don.

Crippling tension was once again replaced with rapturous applause and cheering.

“Vito’s words,” continued the Don, “have brought peace to the five families. As head of the Luciano family, and leader of this council, I vow that I shall not break the peace that we have created here today.”
“Here, here!,” cried Harry the Homicider, a good-natured homicidal maniac from the west side. Don Luigi immediately took out a revolver and shot Harry in the face eight times (he had to reload after the first six bullets).

“A man who interrupts another man when he’s talking about peace?” said Don Luigi. “Such a man has no respect. And I cannot respect a man who shows no respect in such situations as the one described just moments ago. Such disrespect is not to be respected. But nor is it to be disrespected, because that would makes us hypocrites. Capiche?”
“Wise words, Godfather,” said Tony.

After the removal of Harry’s carcass from the hall, each mobster queued single-file to pinch Vito’s cheek and kiss him asexually on the lips. When all had paid their respects, Vito’s mouth was dripping with the saliva of fifty men and his cheek bone was fractured in four places. Regardless, his expression never flickered.

“And to think,” said the Don, placing a friendly arm around Vito’s shoulders, “I once thought this guy was an undercover cop.” The Don melted into convulsions of laughter. Everyone else followed suit, until the loud crackle of a walkie-talkie quietened the assembly.

“Come in Delta Bravo,” came a muffled voice from Vito’s pocket. “Delta Bravo, this is Charlie One. Hello? Calling Vito. Hellooooo. Come on Vito, it’s me, Mike, down at the precinct. Want to grab a brewskie tonight? Come on buddy, The Policeman’s Ball only comes around once a year? And it’s the ten year anniversary of our graduation. You know, from the academy? The police academy, I mean? I don’t know why I said that. What other academies have you graduated from, eh? Come on buddy, come for a beer tonight. You’ve been working too hard lately. As an undercover cop. Yep, the old undercover cop-aroony. Doin the copin. Under the old cover-aroonies. Hello, Vito? You there? Oh wait…shit, are you doing that Mafia counsel thing tonight? Cough if you can’t talk.”

Vito coughed, but it was too late.

“Eh, eh, eh,” he remonstrated as several goons seized him and unburdened him of some fresh salami he’d been hoping to bite into. Tony frisked Vito’s pin-striped suit, removing from various pockets the culprit walkie-talkie, a police badge, a gun, a membership card for the police sport & social club, a wallet containing a picture of Vito in his police uniform with the caption ‘Cop of the Year 1984’, and a standard issue police truncheon.

“It’s not what it looks like,” said Vito.
“I loved you like a son,” said Don Luigi.
“We only met forty minutes ago,” answered Vito.
“Well it feels longer. And your disrespect? It cuts me. Cuts me deep in the buttabalingas. And now I have to kill you.”

Vito smiled.

“No, you won’t kill me Don Luigi. You know why? Because deep down, I see good in you. I see a man whose heart beats with the love of…”

Don Luigi took out his revolver and shot Vito in the face fifteen times (two reloads). His carcass was found in the East river by a police-trained beaver. The beaver gnawed away over a kilogram of flesh from Vito’s neck and chin before his handler arrived on the scene, leading to the permanent termination of the disastrous Police Beaver program.

The NYPD tried to find homes for the sixty odd beavers in their charge, but most were too battle-hardened and disturbed to be reintegrated successfully into the wild, or beaver sanctuaries. Most were euthanised with pitchforks or sold to glue farms, but two escaped into the city sewers and briefly terrorised lower Manhattan before they were shot and killed by an off-duty Canadian Mounty outside a pizzeria in Little Italy.


(dedicated to every beaver who died in the line of duty during the existence of the Police Beaver program)

Horoscopes: African Rhinos, Frankfurters and Filipino Brides

Aries (Mar 21 – Apr 19)

Stop trying to satisfy everyone else’s expectations. You must learn to feel comfortable in your own skin. If the cannibalistic serial killer who’ll soon be wearing you as a suit can do it, why can’t you?

Taurus (Apr 20 – May 20)

Saturn aligns with Jupiter this weekend, giving you heart burn. It’s time to put your finances in order. Money is scarce, and you can no longer justify keeping a fully-grown African Rhino tethered in your back garden. Take him to the local park, unleash him, and walk casually away whilst whistling nonchalantly.

Gemini (May 21 – Jun 21)

Be more assertive. If you don’t ask, you don’t get. A mysterious stranger bombards you with flattery this week. Unfortunately, it’s only to distract you while his associate hot wires your car. Adding insult to injury, they needlessly run you over during their getaway, breaking both your legs. The same men return to steal your wheelchair, but I’ll cover that in the next month’s horoscopes.

Cancer (Jun 22 – Jul 22)

Saturn begins its fourth lunar cycle, playing havoc with your nasal hair growth. A colleague makes romantic overtures. Now is the time to reciprocate. What have you got to lose? You’ll both be dead in 24 hours anyway, having eaten from the same contaminated canteen stew.

Leo (Jul 23 – Aug 22)

Don’t dwell on the negativity of others. Now is the time to be more assertive. Your get-rich-quick scheme runs aground upon mounting suspicion that your belt is lined with Frankfurters, not TNT. Killing hostage after hostage does temporarily rekindle your aura of menace, but also forces the hand of the Gardai sharp-shooters. Rarely has the term ‘closed casket’ fit more snugly.

Virgo (Aug 23 – Sep 22)

Relaxation is key. Switching off is something you struggle with. An old flame returns unexpectedly this week, preaching reform and asking for a second chance. Do not be fooled. This is the same head case who doused you in petrol and set you alight, for failing to put a coaster beneath your drink. As you remonstrated at the time, there are no coasters in MacDonalds.

Libra (Sep 23 – Oct 23)

Mercury crosses the path of Mars this week, bringing you an unmerciful dose of the shits. Charity always begins at home. Luckily for you, your home will be bulldozed by the council in a case of mistaken identity (the 9 on your front door loosens and swings upside down into a 6). Living rough will be a novelty during the summer months, but you’ll quickly succumb to the elements by mid-autumn.

Scorpio (Oct 24 – Nov 21)

Now is a time for reflection. A friend betrays your confidence, passing your secret to a third party. The third party being a cop, and your secret being a family imprisoned in your basement, does not make your friend any less of a squealer. And you know what must be done with squealers, right? The shovel and the hacksaw are in the shed, behind the paint pots. And for God’s sake wear gloves this time.

Sagittarius (Nov 22 – Dec 21)

Opportunity knocks, and Cupid pays a visit this week. Play your cards right and wedding bells might beckon. A Royal Flush should be enough to secure the whole pot, including the Filipino bride. Beware though: the southern gentleman to your left is counting cards, and the greasy shark opposite has a dodgy ace taped to the underside of his chair.

Capricorn (Dec 22 – Jan 19)

Caution is paramount. Greeting obstacles head-on is not always the right approach. Particularly when you’re sprinting along a set of train tracks. Mercifully, you’ll side-step the 4:10 from Dublin and come away with little more than a grazed hip. It’s the 2:05 from Galway coming the opposite direction that’ll really catch you by surprise, grinding you into a gloopy, viscous paste.

Aquarius (Jan 20 – Feb 18)

Beware false prophets. You have a tendency to over-trust. A businessman comes to you with a financial proposition this week. Selling him your kidney brings you short-term riches and a heady lifestyle. Selling him your liver, heart and lungs exposes your appalling ignorance of human anatomy.

Pisces (Feb 19 – Mar 20)

Orion is visible in the North sky this month, meaning you have eighteen seconds to live. Put your house in order, sooner rather than later. Though your death certificate will ultimately read ‘Swine Flu’, this is a clerical error. ‘Swine food’ would be more accurate, given that you are choking on a rasher as of…wait….wait for it….NOW.

Grizzled Justice

I now present the last page of my crime novel ‘Grizzled Justice’. First published in 2003, it reinvented the buddy-cop genre by mismatching bickering partners 15% more than had previously been seen, and making their loose-cannon behaviour 8% more unorthodox. Enjoy!



Flann O’Coonassa

Page 362 of 362

…shaved my nipples, and the majority of my pubes. It all grew back ginger for some reason. Never did figure out why.”
“Sarge, why are you telling me this?” asked Stenson, reloading his gun.
“Can’t say exactly,” replied McDiesel, striking a safety match against his own stubble to light a cigarette. “Guess it’s my way of telling you, you’re all right kid. Sure, you go by the book, and you bust my chops, quoting regulations and what not.”
“It’s true, I do that,” interrupted Stenson.

“Shut up,” snapped McDiesel. “My point is, after Pachanski was decapitated, I never thought I’d want another partner. But I’d rather you watching my back than any of those jackasses down at the precinct.”
“Thanks sarge.”
“Shut up,” said McDiesel, stubbing out the cigarette on his own eyeball. “Let’s finish this.”

Both men bounded from behind the empty barrels into a maelstrom of gunfire. Stenson followed a regulation shoot-and-move pattern, flawlessly replicated from his academy training. Not for the first time, McDiesel threw out the rule book, ambling through the warehouse, shooting henchman after henchman in a higgildy-piggildy, unorthodox fashion. At one point he stood still without cover, bullets whizzing by, to answer a text from his estranged daughter.

“U WERE NEVER THERE 4 ME OR MUM,” read the message.
“MOM STILL LOVES YOU,” said another text.

 One by one the stooges fell, until the warehouse was strewn with open-eyed corpses. The gunfire petered out. Stenson, breathless, joined McDiesel in the centre of what was now a congregation of corpses. Stenson smiled. “Shut up,” replied McDiesel.

With stealth, a final goon peeped from behind a stack of crates and trained his gun on the duo. McDiesel, harnessing a streetwise sixth sense that can’t be taught in any book or manual, drew his oversized revolver and fired into the air. The bullet severed the chain of an enormous overhead chandelier, crashing it to earth upon the would-be assassin.

“A chandelier in a warehouse?” mused Stenson, mouth agape.
“Go figure,” said McDiesel, essentially putting the plot-hole to bed without satisfactory explanation.
“That’s some pretty unorthodox, grizzled shit you just pulled McDiesel.”
“You French-kiss your mother with that mouth, Stenson?”
“My mother’s dead,” replied Stenson. McDiesel laughed heartily. Still unsure of the joke, Stenson followed suit, laughing nervously.
“Shut up,” said McDiesel, removing his scrotum from his trousers and striking a match among the ginger sproutings.

Suddenly, a shot rang from the shadows, and Stenson’s impeccably ironed shirt reddened. He began to slowly fall. McDiesel could easily have caught him, but it wasn’t his style, and Stenson respected the machismo. After letting Stenson’s head bounce off the concrete, McDiesel took a knee and blew smoke into his face.

“You’re going to be OK kid.”
“I’m so cold McDiesel.
“What are you, shitting me? It’s a hundred degrees outside.”
“I ain’t gonna make it McDiesel.”
“That’s statistically probable. I’ll grant you that.”

“Will you do something for me, McDiesel?”
“Name it kid.”
“My sweetheart…Jessica,” drawled Stenson, weakening with every word.
“She being cheating on you? Want me to slap her around a little?”
“No…no. Tell her…tell her….I…love her.”
“Bit fruity, isn’t it? How about I tell her you like her?”

Stenson gurgled, wet himself, and passed on to the big precinct in the sky. McDiesel blessed himself with the wrong hand, in the wrong direction, opened Stenson’s eyes, lit a match on one of his comrade’s eyeballs, re-closed his eyes, and let a guttural yell.

“We meet again, Mr McDiesel,” came a voice from the shadows.
“Just a second,” answered McDiesel. “OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO.”

Into the light stepped Dr Blackhorn, kingpin of the drugs empire Stenson had given his life in fighting. One hand pointed a gun at McDiesel; the other was held around the throat of Stacey, McDiesel’s on-again off-again girlfriend who hasn’t been mentioned until this point.

“Blackhorn, I might have known.”
“Pretty obvious, I would have thought old boy,” replied Blackhorn in his refined, aristocratic English accent.
“He hurt you Stacey?”
“A little,” wept Stacey, “he twisted my arm up behind…”
 “Shut up. Let her go Blackhorn. This is between you and me.”

“Mr McDiesel, you have been quite the thorn in my side,” said Blackhorn with superb manners and dreamy elocution. “It was my understanding that you’d been suspended? That the mayor and the DA had grown tired of your unorthodox methods? Tired of explaining to the media why you continually lay waste to entire apartment blocks and fleets of cars in an uncompromising pursuit of utopian justice?”
“Yeah, captain took my badge and piece. But I don’t need no badge to track down scum like you.”

McDiesel fidgeted the trigger on his gun. Blackhorn tightened his grip on Stacey’s neck, drawing his human shield closer.

“Enough of this charade, Mr McDiesel. Drop your weapon, or the girl dies.”
“She means nothing to me. Go ahead. Kill her.”
“Come now Mr McDiesel,” said Blackhorn in a lilting swankiness that makes the queen sound like a two-dollar hooker in comparison, “lower your weapon.”

With that, McDiesel raised his gun and shot Stacey. Shocked, Blackhorn loosened his grip and Stacey flopped to the ground. Labouring the point, McDiesel shot Stacey several more times. Both men then shot a single round at each other, and each man collapsed to the ground. Nobody moved for several minutes.

“McDiesel, you…son…of a bitch,” muttered Stacey.
“Shut up,” replied McDiesel, lighting a match across the flesh wound millimetres above his heart — the 84th flesh wound of his career. He stumbled to his feet and lurched to inspect Blackhorn, who sported a bullet wound in the middle of his forehead. McDiesel put out his cigarette, opened Blackhorn’s eyes, struck a match against his eyeball, and lit another cigarette.

Soon the warehouse was awash with dazzling blue lights as a flurry of squad cars and ambulances swarmed the crime scene.

“She’s going to make it sergeant,” said a paramedic. “Nice shooting, you avoided all her vital organs.”
“Huh?” replied McDiesel.

His arm in a sling, McDiesel strode from the warehouse smoking two cigarettes at once. At the entrance he happened upon Captain Norfolk.

“I’ve gotta hand it to you McDiesel,” said Captain Norfolk, “you get results. I might not agree with your grizzled attitude, or your loose-cannon methods, but damn it, you bring home the bacon.”

Smiling, Captain Norfolk returned McDiesel his badge and piece. Grinning through his perma-stubble, McDiesel lowered his pants, wiped his ass with the badge, threw it away and continued walking. Farther along, he was confronted by the overzealous reporter who had endangered the whole mission in pursuit of a scoop.

“Sergeant McDiesel, do you have any comment on what went down here tonight?” he asked.

Without breaking his stride, McDiesel removed his arm from its sling and punched the reporter unconscious. A little farther along, McDiesel was again confronted, this time by O’Reilly from Internal Affairs.

“We’re going to need you to sit down tomorrow and explain all this Sergeant,” said O’Reilly. “There’s 154 dead bodies in that warehouse, and all we found was 45 dollars worth of cannabis.”

Again without breaking stride, McDiesel un-slung his arm and punched his tormentor unconscious. Finally free of the melee of reporters and police, he sat into the driver’s seat of his car.

“Hello Cornelius,” came a familiar voice from the passenger seat. It was Imelda, his ex-wife. “I love you, and I want you back,” she said tenderly. McDiesel un-slung his arm, punched her unconscious, rolled her from the car, and drove into the rising sun: ever-villigant, and ever-ready to live life on the edge.


Old Rants

Rant by is licensed under a Creative Commons License. Copyright © 2009 Flann O'Coonassa