The Curmudgeon

YOU'LL COME FOR THE CURSES. YOU'LL STAY FOR THE MUDGEONRY.

Tuesday, June 28, 2005

A Childhood Memory

When I was a child, I occasionally read bits of Reader's Digest. I'm not proud of it, but I was young; and at least I had the sense never to go near any of their pigfucking Condensed Books. A couple of articles still stick in my mind. There was one called "The Student Who Designed an A-Bomb", which Osama and company might find instructive. Another, whose title I can't remember, concerned a US military pilot whose canopy suddenly disappeared when he was on a routine flight and who, despite losing one eye to a chunk of debris, managed to land his aircraft with some help from ground control.

The best one, which appeared about 1974 but came my way a few years later, was called "The Man They Couldn't Kill". While the title is not quite correct, the story is eminently uplifting and contains valuable moral lessons for chronic drinkers and insurance salesmen.

I don't remember the city, but it happened in America in 1933, during the Depression. A loose agglomeration of small-time nasties, later to be sensationalised as "The Murder Trust" by the Press, used to hang around a certain speakeasy which was also patronised by a middle-aged, bleary-eyed, alcoholic Irishman called, I believe, Michael Malloy. The nasties had recently carried out a successful insurance job whereby the girlfriend of one of them had been doped to the tonsils with rotgut liquor, then placed on her bed and doused with cold water with the windows wide open in the middle of winter. In the morning she was dead of alcoholism and exposure, and the nasties collected on the policy which one of them had thoughtfully taken out beforehand.

One of them suggested doing the same with Malloy, who drank too much and looked too frail to last very long. They took out a policy, citing him as an uncle or cousin or something of the sort, and started plying him with free drinks. Malloy didn't mind at all, but despite the excessive quantities and the less than stellar quality, he didn't die. They started lacing his whisky with methylated spirits, but he didn't die. Then they tried antifreeze, in ever-increasing amounts. After a while Malloy was knocking back pure antifreeze. He didn't mind at all, and he didn't die.

I can't remember what else they gave him to drink, but none of it was champagne. I do know they tried feeding him sandwiches with spoiled meat, and I am reasonably sure that after a few tries they started garnishing the meat with sharp metal shavings filed off the tin. Malloy appreciated their hospitality - probably toasted it a time or several in double antifreeze - and staggered off into the night, only to return the next day, bleary-eyed but still bushy-tailed and with cast titanium alimentary canal awaiting the next amusing challenge.

His would-be beneficiaries, who had been observing the performance with growing desperation, eventually consulted a more professional gangster who advised them to forget the fancy stuff and simply murder Malloy outright. I think they ran him over with a car, but he bounced and came back for more antifreeze. In the end they had to stick a gas pipe in his mouth and suffocate him, which is too bad; but this, via a suspicious coroner and one or two indiscretions, eventually led most of them to the electric chair.

That's the kind of story that helps me face the day. I just thought I'd share it with you.

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