Dark Side of the 60's Moon by Mike Marino (great novels of all time TXT) 📖

of the Germany she came from was fraught with beer barrel oom pah pah tubas and polka folk dancing along with had a wonderfully deprave history of cabaret and fishnet draped boy and girl dancers wearing too much lipstick and moulin rouge.

 

I had an Irish lovely take me by the hand and get into the Gaelic spirit of the dance. I was Michael Collins himself or some other Irish hero..O’Toole or O’Shaughnessy...the Irish mick and Italian dago are very similar. The only difference being the Irish have the vowel at the beginning of their name, while we Italians have it as a caboose at the end of our name.

 

By midnight we were danced out, Guinnessed out and Irished out. One more chorus of “Oh, Danny Boy” bringing the room of burly blokes to tears and I would tear my tarantella heart out. We would crash at Liams place in the spare bedroom and rest up for the Christmas Eve killing where visions of FBI sugar plums would stomp on my head.

 

Murder at Christmas, the most wonderful time of the year.

Chapter 57 - When Irish Eyes Are Sniling

That night I had a dream. No, I won’t break into a Martin Luther King I’ve been to the mountain monologue as it wasn’t that kind of dream. I am quite sure it was brought on by the thought that in the morning the new day would begin as a typical snow Tiny Tim picturesque Christmas Eve minus the kid on crutches.

 

This would be the day of reckoning where an FBI agent who had infiltrated our ranks was driving head on to Chicago to meet the almighty at the hands of the militant ex-patriot IRA members in the back room or alley of O’Bannion’s Pub. The almighty in this case not being the omnipotent J. Edgar Hoover.

 

Two other “rats” had been exterminated at my request and at a distance. This time I would be closer to the action, front row seats perhaps, box seats, first base, watching Liam hit a homerun out of Wrigley Field.

 

In my dream, all jumbled up, Santa was a hired killer. So this is Christmas and what have you done...killed a man, and now on the run. Gawd, Christmas should be one of happiness and light, not death.

 

Sitting up in the dark quiet morning I was day dreaming  of the Picasso-like juxtaposed marvel of my grandparents adorned Christmas tree with the jumbled tangle of lights and the  visual cacophony that comes with Christmas and family.

Ornaments affixed with tiny hooks, the precautionary measure to providing them safety from falling from their temporary holiday season evergreen (plastic substance of some sort now was beginning to  replace the  Norman Rockwell ideal mid-century merry Blue Spruce monolith as well as the Griswold Family Christmas Tree that can electrocute a cat in under 10 seconds flat.

I see the Christmas tree in front of me as a skid row mission, offering shelter for homeless ornaments who for 11 months out of the year, spend endless days and cold nights in a storage box under a freeway overpass. Ornaments emerge from Ornament Rehab for Christmas with a holier than thou attitude hogging attention, a free mission meal and a little town of Bethlehem rosary while the mission dispenses gruel and God in equal measure.



Christmas is meant for cheer…hell, it’s the Dallas Cheerleader of all holidays. To some, however, the tree itself, the Christmas carols, is enough to chamber a bullet and shoot yourself in the head. It’s the season of suicide hotlines, ambulance sirens racing to the rescue of someone who prefers to be not disturbed. Look past the glimmer of bubble lights, a joyful and wondrous invention, and the tree is dark beyond the front layer of Liberace lights. Peer deep enough and you can see a dark forbidding alley strewn with empty bottles of cheap booze , and the bubble lights are now replaced by syringes and needles. The junkie will cook his lovin’ spoonful with hurried, yet meticulous care, as much care as is given to the basted beast sitting in it’s own Auschwitz oven filled with dressing without the Zyklon B garnish.

Joyeux Noel replaced by mental and physical pain so fierce at times suicide happens….Imagine ….the Suicide Season at the mall. “I’d like to see something in this season’s suicider fashion… None of that off the rack Sears crap either...and I’d like it gift wrapped please. Just charge it, thank you.

I’d rather grab the mistletoe and hide the Smith and Wesson.

 

Myrika was just awakening hearing me stir. I loved that moment when she first wakes up. Her voice is raspy, very Kathleen Turner. Her blonde hair ruffled and the musk she emits from sex the night before has a gravitational pull that even a fast moving comet couldn’t break free of its grasp.

 

“Wake up, Baby. We have a busy day ahead of us. Liam is expecting Martin to be at the pub this evening. We have a lot to do.”

 

Myrika moaned gently, softly. “Come to bed. One more for the road, OK. C’mon Mikey, I want it. Get in here,” she said demandingly. Getting in here meant getting in her.  

 

While my Brer  Rabbit was otherwise engaged inside  her briar patch, out of the blue she blew me away.

 

“I want a gun too, can we get one, please?”

 

My eyes went wide, my mouth dropped and my mind was on autopilot at this.

 

“What the hell for? Are you crazy???”

 

“No, I just want one to feel safe. All those guns in the bar last night wre, I don’t know kind of sexy, you know what I mean? I want to play with it, feel it, kiss it and lick it.”

 

“Damn, Myrika. They turn you on, don’t they? Son of a bitch, they make you horney!”

 

She smiled slyly and pulled me in tighter and deeper inside of her.

 

“Yeah, they do. When you’re off someplace and I get lonely I can use it to, you know make me come.”

 

“You want a gun, a .38 to use as a dildo?? Damn girl. What if there’s a bullet in the chamber you forget to remove so it’s empty? Then what?”

 

Her fixation was deeper than I thought. Laughing she explained. “That’s the fun part. The not knowing, the unknown, the rush. Feeling the cold steel inside of me warming up. The gunpowder smell, the  trigger cocking and then cumming.”

Great! She wanted to play Russian Roulette with a sexual twist!

 

She dug her nails into my back hard, leaving marks that would last for days. She had a habit of getting rough with sex. Sexual activity with her had one battle cry.
A dog may be man’s best friend, but a man-pet is a Female’s best friend!

 

Where Myrika was concerned, make no mistake I had no choice.

 

Forget Dirty Harry! I could hear Myrika now. “I know what you're thinking, Mickey.  Did I come six times  or only five? Well to tell you the truth in all this excitement I kinda lost track myself. But being this is a Vagina Magnum, the most powerful hymen in the world and would blow your head clean off, you've gotta ask yourself one question: "Do I feel lucky?" Well, do ya, punk?”

 

Now I was ready for another go at her.

 

“One more, baby. OK?”

 

She smiled broadly…”OK, Honey...Lock n’ Load!”

 

There was plenty of time to kill  Martin, but right now Myrika’s pleasure came first. After all this was Christmas Eve. While the rest of the world was searching for peace on earth, I had the ultimate piece in bed with me...and yes, I was a punk feeling lucky!

Chapter 58 - The Hit Squad

 

We spent the day at O’Bannions Pub in the basement annex where I’m sure many a stool pigeon had been Sein Fein’d in the name of St. Michael Collins, the patron saint of weapons and gunpowder procurement for the the Irish Republican Army during the Irish Civil War in the early 20th Century. His portrait loomed large over over O’Bannions mahogany bar as if keeping a watchful eye on the patrons ready to alert them to imminent danger perpetrated by  those sinister fiddle playing Darby O’Gill little people who might be undercover leprechauns with Union Jack undershorts and loyalties.

 

“Liam, we are getting close, aren’t we?” I queried nervously. I had never actually taken part in an assassination. This was a first for me.

 

Liam only laughed, “Me boy, it’s like the first time you had a go with a young lass. Ha. Once you get the first time out of the way...hell, it’s easy.”

 

First Myrika wanting to masturbate with the cold steel of a pistol barrel with one in the chamber...now Liam equating a killing with teenage angst filled orgasm. What was I missing? I wonder what Myrika would feel taking a double barreled shotgun inside. Christ, that would be the sexual equal of shooting fish in a barrel!

 

We kept quiet and listened intently to Liam and the St. Patrick Murder Incorporated hit squad discuss various methodology, the art of the kill. They discussed with the same intensity as a group of German physicists discussing molecular density in a weightless environment while prisms bounce light waves around with the ease of ping pong balls at a Chinese tournament.

 

“I think the .22 is best Liam. Small hole, base of the neck. Not much blood splatter and the bullet will be nearly untraceable,” Ian McMurphy, a tall redheaded ginger with a facial scar and 14 confirmed kills in old Killarney represented by individual tattoo markings on his arm  explained in an educational matter of fact sort of way.

 

“Naw, too dago. Those Guinea’s use those all the time. Besides we want to make a statement to other undercover cops or stoolies. I say blast ‘em with a shotgun. Whole head comes off like a pumpkin being smashed on Devil’s Night. Or if a belly shot, too many holes to plug up so chances of not bleeding to death are minimal.” Liam always the practical one explained further. “Besides do you realize the cost of shotgun shells over a bullet? Shotguns are noisy as hell. Someone’s bound to hear it even if we let loose with a dozen bagpipes and 20 Celtic drums.”

 

“I know,” cried out a quiet moody looking lout by name of Pat O’Malley. “Garotte! Silent and no mess to clean up. That or a knife, mates. Strangulation by garotte is a tradition. We should honor tradition. Of course a knife works