Michael Malloy, Super-Hobo

“Why won’t he die?  WHY WON’T HE DIE!?”

~The Murder Trust, 1933

It’s a shocking truth that, some great Americans?  Were not born in America.  Hell, Bob Hope, the man who made it a life passion to entertain American troops, was born in England.  We’re not elitists, we’re Americans, and we recognize that this is a melting pot, and that if you truly embrace what it means to be an American, it doesn’t matter where you were born.  Such is the case of the most glorious homeless man in the history of America, Michael Malloy.

Who was Michael Malloy, you may ask?  Only an Irish-American who was as impossible to kill as Rasputin, if Rasputin knew how to hold his liquor.  Born in Ireland, Malloy once worked as a Fireman before coming to America and inventing crippling alcoholism.  He died in 1933 at the age of 60, after a series of failed murder attempts at the hands of The Murder Trust.  While the death of a great, booze guzzling hero is always a tragedy, if you’re gonna go down, you might as well go down at the hands of a group as awesomely named as “The Murder Trust.”  The only way Michael Malloy’s obituary could have read any more awesome is if his cause of death had been listed as “advanced age and sexual encounters with twelve women in one night.”

Especially if he was dressed as a Stormtrooper, but ESPECIALLY if he was dressed as a Stormtrooper.

Michael Malloy had no money, no home, and liked to trick people into getting drinks for him at a local Speakeasy.  At this point, five of the patrons of the speakeasy, including the bartender and the owner, got it in their heads that they would put out not one, not two, but three life insurance policies on the old drunk, and wait for him to croak, at which point they stood to gain $3,500 (which today would be about $57,000, which split five ways could get you a pretty decent new Kia).

So, Tony Marino decided, “Hey, so if we just gave him an open tab forever, he’ll probably die on his own accord, like Nicolas Cage in that movie Leaving Las Vegas.”

Even though that movie was still 60 years away from being made, the rest of Marino’s accomplices agreed with the first part of the plan.  Little did they realize that for Michael Malloy, unlimited alcohol was like giving steroids to Arnold Schwarzenegger.  There would be side effects, but in the long run, it would only make him stronger.

Ha ha, the internet is awesome

After the “have him drink himself to death” method failed to yield results, The Murder Trust asked themselves, “What would a hopeless drunk chug that would probably kill them?”  The answer?  Antifreeze.  For a week.  Instead of serving him liquor, they’d give him shots of antifreeze, which Michael Malloy guzzled the shit out of until he passed out, then waking up would say, “That was some good shit, give me another.”  What they failed to realize is that the one way to treat antifreeze poisoning was to consume pure alcohol.  Most doctors estimate that since Michael Malloy’s liver was comprised of 125% alcohol, giving him antifreeze probably just helped take it down to a more acceptable level of 90%.

So, if anti-freeze can’t kill Michael Malloy, what can?  How about turpentine?  Shit, still nothing?  He likes it?  Uh… Horse Liniment with rat poison mixed in?  What’s that, you don’t even know what that would look like?  Well, not only did Michael Malloy know, he knew what it tasted like, and he loved that shit.

Though to be fair, if we were given a shot of a random brown liquid, we’d chug it too

We’d have to assume that The Murder Trust was starting to get discouraged after watching Michael Malloy guzzle down antifreeze, turpentine, horse liniment, and rat poison and come back the next day asking, nay, begging for more.  Hell, they even fashioned a sandwich of spoiled sardines, carpenter’s tacks, and metal shavings, and Malloy’s first thoughts were, “Hey, not only did I get a free meal, but I got a delicious free meal!”  The Murder Trust also soaked oysters in wood alcohol, served it to him, had him CHASE the oysters with some wood alcohol, and Malloy just thought, “Wow, oysters, I feel like a Rockefeller!”

So, how did The Murder Trust hope to finally solve the puzzle that is Michael Malloy’s mortality?  Well, following the AFFotD credo of “Fuck nature,” they waited for a -14 degree day, let him to drink until he passed out, dragged him out to Central Park, took off his coat, and dumped 5 gallons of water on him.  While most people have a fatal allergy to “being turned into a motherfucking popsicle,” Michael Malloy woke up, shrugged, and asked the most American question.  “Can I have some more booze?”

“Whiskey or Horse Liniment would be great”

Since The Murder Trust had decided to put out a life insurance policy on a goddamned Highlander, they thought they might as well confirm the theory.  Poison does not kill Michael Malloy, exposure does not kill Michael Malloy, how will that drunk homeless American son of a bitch respond to being hit by a taxi at 45 miles per hour?  Well, as they scampered off, The Murder Trust assumed he was hella dead.  Except, “Michael Malloy, homeless alcoholic, epic American, holder of three suspicious life insurance policies” did not appear in the obituaries.  And without a death certificate, they couldn’t get that sweet hard cash to spend on mercury pills and hobo fights and whatever the fuck people spent money on in the 1930’s.

Or….space hookers?

But with no body, and no hospital reports, The Murder Trust needed a body.  So, they found a poor schmuck, ran him over twice, and HE lived.  For a group called The Murder Trust, they were about as good at murdering as a poorly conceived “M is for Murder” episode of Sesame Street.  Needless to say, there were five hate-filled soiled pants when Michael Malloy walked the fuck in three weeks after the accident saying, “Sorry bout that, had a concussion and a broken shoulder, but you know what would be good right now?  BOOZE.”

Car accident, eh?  That should be enough booze to keep it at bay.

Finally, they found Michael Malloy’s one weakness.  That’s right, they put a hose connected to a gas jet in his mouth and waited until the fucker turned purple.  And that was the untimely demise of one of the most unkillable Irish American sons of bitches of all time.  The Murder Trust were arrested on charges of “Seriously you guys?  Even we’re surprised it took us this long to figure out you were trying to kill a hobo” and convicted.  Which just goes to show, if you try to kill a borderline immortal American Superman, it’s just not worth the effort.  Not one bit.