Death becomes him

Posted in Old blogger by Twenty Major on January 22nd, 2007

Sitting in Ron’s yesterday evening having a few pints and watching the football. After the last gasp winner sent Manchester United mad Dirty Dave into tears our mate Splodge, the one with the birthmark on his face, said, “Lads, if you had to kill Barry Egan how would you do it?”

“Great question, Splodge”, said Ron who was first to answer. “Nothing fancy for me. I’d just tie him to a chair, take an iron bar or some other kind of club and just beat the fucker to a pulp. The satisfying crunch of bone and his skull being crushed would be just fantastic. I would have to wear some kind of hazard suit in case any of his brain flew out and went into my mouth and I caught the stupid cunt disease he so obviously suffers from.”

“Old fashioned, I like that”, said Jimmy the Bollix. “Me, I’d do that thing from American History X where he made the bloke bite the curb then stamped on his head. After that I’d hire a helicopter and tie to him to the rungs underneath. Then we’d take off, hover at a nice height directly over the Wellington Monument in the Phoenix Park then cut the ropes so he would fall right on top of the spiked bit before landing on the steps below where all the children were running up and down.”

“Inventive!”, said Stinking Pete. “If it were up to me I would call him up pretending to be Lisa Murphy and I’d say in a sensuous but husky voice ‘Hey Barry Egan. I want to give you some good loving because I know you like that pre-op look I’ve made my own. Come to the Conrad Hotel, room 216′ and he’d be so turned on at the thought of getting the ride off yer woman that he can’t stop writing about in the newspaper that he would think the deepness of the voice was because she was so turned on by the thoughts of his ginger pubis. When he arrived at the hotel I would greet him in sexy Agent Provocateur lingerie and only when I slipped off my sliky knickers and he saw my Johnson would he realise that I wasn’t Lisa Murphy. It would be Crying Gametastic. Then I’d shoot the cunt in the eye.”

“Very good if a little bit a fruity”, said Lucky Luciano. “For me is a difficult. As a compassionate assassin is a hard to kill a someone for no money but for this Mick Hucknall alookalike I make a the exception. I a find out where he live and get postman outfit. Then I a call to the door and say “Hello Mr Egan, I am normal postman and a not a someone who want to kill you. I have package for you. Please to sign a here. When he a sign I give him package. I a leave but wait at gate. You see, in package is sabre toothed tiger that I have a made from DNA found in some old a fossil and when he open, Lionel - is name of a sabre tooth tiger - will a savage him then eat him.”

“Fearsome, Lucky!”, said Dirty Dave who had recovered from the beating his team got. “Me, I’d rape him. Except instead of raping him with my penis I’d rape him with the penis of a blue whale which is over six feet long and can shoot out 18 gallons of jism in one ejaculation. Of course the difficulty would be getting the blue whale into the Sunday Independent offices but nothing is impossible. If penetration didn’t kill him the sheer force of whale spunk shooting into him surely would.”

“Whale custard brilliance”, I said. “If I were given such an opportunity I would first go out and earn millions of euros so I could afford to pay the Russian space federation to bring us into space on a space rocket. I would invite Egan as a journalist and say ‘Look, this is unrivaled access to the first ever blogger in space and when you get back you can tell Lisa ‘equal parts Aphrodite and Ursula Andress’ Murphy that you were an astronaut and let’s face it being an astronaut is far cooler than being an Irish dancer and if she’ll fuck an Irish dancer you’d be in like Flynn.’

So we’d go into space and oooh and aaah about how beautiful it all was and how small the earth looked and blather about how insignificant we are in the great scheme of things. Then I’d say ‘Hey, Barry Egan, take a picture of me by this airlock’ and when he came over I’d shove him into the airlock then open the outer door and watch him float away into space. If the movies have taught us anything his head will swell up grotesquely and explode which would be fucking cool.”

“Astromungous”, said Ron. “What about you then, Splodge. How would you kill Barry Egan?’

He took a sip of his pint, his eyes never leaving the bar.

“Slowly”, he said.