Murder At Muldoons

By Seamus Muldoon, Himself
Copyright © 1997-2017
All Rights Reserved

It never ceases to amaze, the variations in life’s flow. When you make a decision to move on, to expand, to challenge new markets, you have no idea whether fame, ill fame or the oblivion of mediocrity awaits.

If you were fortunate enough to have been present at the creation, a patron of the original Muldoons, then you would already have a sense of the history that is unfolding here.

Even the greatest good times eventually leave you wanting to try something else, something newer, something different. You think you’re better than you really are. You hallucinate about bigger and better, more upscale ventures. No longer content just to pour booze down the throats of the world’s most entertaining array of dysfunctional misfits, you start doing market research.

Market research in the saloon business is wall-to-wall fun. It is a process in which you go from saloon to saloon, all over town or maybe in another town, being a mystery customer, scouting every locale for that next opportunity, the next incarnation of Muldoons. You talk to saloon owners, managers, bartenders, customers, vendors (who will tell anyone who asks all about your business – off the record, of course). If you are not a real self- disciplinarian, you can wreck your liver and your prostate in this process. Women who think you’re going to buy a joint (not a marijuana cigarette, but a bar) just can’t wait to fuck your brains out. They have delusions of being the belle of the ball at your new joint; think you’re some wild kinda guy to be doing something like this; will pretend to believe anything you tell them. Soon, they’re lying to you more than you’re lying to them.

If you are to have any chance at all of finding the right venue before you kill yourself with booze and sex, you have to pick your niche and scratch off every joint that isn’t really in the running. In this specific instance, we aren’t looking for anything that has to do $ 2,000,000 a year to make money due to a huge capital investment’s debt service. The location is critical, area more than address. And, wouldn’t you just know it, there was a very nice “room” (if you’re in the business you call it a room – what bullshit) that some very stupid third world person with oil business connections had configured to attract what he thought would be very wealthy people who like to drink top shelf martinis for $ 12 a drink. And he named it “Gin”. And it was almost empty all the time, because wealthy people who like to drink top shelf martinis are accustomed to paying $ 7 to $ 9 for a really generous top shelf martini in Houston in 1999. Our oriental (anything east of Mississippi is Oriental in TEXAS) potentate liked to say that he priced his drinks to make the riff raff drink elsewhere. He was a success at that. While it was true that his upscale target customer wouldn’t patronize any saloon where he had to drink with lesser lights, it was also true that his upscale target customer could drink quite well with people whose company he truly appreciated at $ 3 to $ 5 a drink cheaper.

Thank you, God, for creating this person and having him open this saloon in Houston and run it in just this manner at exactly the time when we wanted to expand. Why are you so good to us?

There had to be some décor changes, but these were affordable because we didn’t buy the bar from the owner. We just waited till he closed his doors and took it over directly from the landlord, all fixtures remaining on location in consideration of non-payment of rent. Inasmuch as we anticipated having a reasonable number of customers, we needed a storage closet for back up booze, wine, cleaning supplies and sundries. We intended to sell in sufficient volume to require a real ice machine. We wanted it to look a little less like a Moroccan whorehouse. But other than that, it was perfect.

There’s always that period when you think you have found what you want,  but you wonder whether Shangri-La may be just a few more drinks and a few more broads further along the road. So you hesitate and lose sleep, dreaming that while you are wanking instead of getting on with it, some other guy might be getting in there ahead of you. You go over your financial plan again and again and keep asking yourself what it is about you that makes you want to take on more risk, more work, more debt; to subject yourself to those inevitable weeks when you have just opened and are waiting to be discovered. You open just as though it was going to be the greatest night of your life, and until about eight o’clock, you sell three drinks and watch fifteen people stick their heads in and immediately leave because no one is there. You advertise for a few months to try for maximum exposure, and you are sure that you are just wasting your money and have just made a terrible mistake. This goes on for a few weeks, while you make excuses for the sad traffic levels, telling yourself that opening during lent was a stupid mistake and other idiotic things like that. Then, after you have spent about two months with your pasted on smile, acting as though you were running the hottest spot in town, people start coming in and coming back. I call this period fake it till you make it. You almost stopped believing that there would be a night when you were so busy that you are ready to drop at two in the morning when last call rolls around. Yes! Yuppies do drink! Thank you Jesus!

This new Muldoons is in a much nicer part of town than the first establishment. It is right between River Oaks and West University Place, ground zero for rich and thirsty yuppies. The crowd is younger and au courant. For the first two months you were terribly grateful to the loyal supporters of the original Muldoons who drove across town to stop in and have a drink. Then, when the yuppies start becoming regulars, you start hoping that some of the old crowd stays where they belong. The lonely 50-year-old boozy broads who fit in perfectly there would scare people away here. The hyper inebriated midget who called you a no good motherfucker at the top of his lungs and threatened to cut your balls off when you cut him off would really spoil the mood here. The folks who still wear the clothes they bought in the 60s really ought to stay over on the west side of town. There are some who still have every Muldoons tee shirt you ever sold in their wardrobe – for some it is even the top of their wardrobe – and, of course, they think that showing up at the new yuppieville Muldoons wearing those old faded tee shirts is something you are grateful for. No yuppie would be caught dead wearing a Muldoons tee shirt. Their outfits all have designer labels, and they reek of what is ridiculously called “men’s cologne”. No man I know would ever wear perfume. But the aroma of perfume and fine cigars is the yuppie signature. And only someone from the original Muldoons would ever loudly fart and stink up fifty square feet of floor space. No yuppie would ever go to the men’s room for anything other than checking out how he looks or to take a piss. Only the old crowd goes in there to take a crap and stink up the entire men’s room for fifteen minutes.

Next door is a tanning salon. Yes, a tanning salon, in Houston where there is bright sunshine over ninety percent of the days. Who goes to a tanning salon? Titty dancers go there to get a full body tan with no tan lines. So on those slow afternoons I can watch these firm young girls with their almost shaved nookies going in and out of the tanning salon, wishing they would drop in and attract men to come to Muldoons. That, of course, is very stupid thinking. They see enough of bars when they are working, and yuppies may go to a titty bar every now and then with a customer, but always come in here with other guys, like some kind of club, or with what I call a TEXAS bitch. A TEXAS bitch is a very chic young gal who has an ass no bigger than a postage stamp, dresses rather conservatively, and is so gorgeous and has such a tight body that she turns you on even if she’s wearing a flour sack. She might let you fuck her, but don’t expect her to have an orgasm. Orgasms are for trashy girls.  There’s a song about a TEXAS bitch – young and rich – always has to have her own way – drives a Porche car – known at every bar – and never gives the boy a chance. In eight years I never saw a TEXAS bitch at the original Muldoons. We had a bartender over there who had been a Miss Teenage TEXAS, and she was/is a bitch, but that was as close as we got. The classic yuppie couple always look like they’re on their way to some very high-class event and are just stopping in for a quick drink with some friends before moving on.

We always had people who stopped in at the original Muldoons who wanted to buy the place or to buy a franchise to have a Muldoons where they lived. None of that was ever taken seriously until lately. The new Muldoons is taking a lot of managerial attention and time. It has become the central focus. And so the decision is made to sell the original Muldoons. Selling it was like the lost city of Atlantis sinking beneath the waves. It was bought by Russians. They promptly changed the décor to what a former communist believes a bar should look like. Instead of the banquettes along the long wall, they put in small booths in which four people would be cramped out of their minds. This is natural for them. Their idea of a social evening out is to go hide in a dark corner and complain about everything, to be so close and private that the KGB can’t overhear them and throw them into prison. And that’s what they did to the original Muldoons. Of course no one went there anymore. As typical commies, they also used smaller beer glasses and raised drink prices. And to make absolutely certain that they destroyed any chance of success, they put a big fat slob with the personality of a Volga River boatman in mid winter in charge of the place. Cleanliness is, of course, not a communist trait, and so dirty glasses were often used – mainly because they were too cheap to pay to get the dishwasher fixed. It would have been Leon Trotsky’s favorite saloon. And, of course, they renamed it what a true former communist would assume a sophisticated capitalist would expect a very fine saloon to be named, Martini’s Bar. The only thing it lacks to make it a real communist institution is a long line of customers waiting to be served. They kept the chess boards, so now the place looks and feels like a communist Christian Science Reading Room with a liquor license.

Unlike the original Muldoons out in west Houston, yuppieville Muldoons does not have much of a happy hour. I think yuppies work/pretend to work later in the day, either to get more done or because their corporate culture frowns upon leaving at five o’clock and they are terrified of being politically incorrect. They also go to the gym or for a run after work rather than hit a saloon and start boozing at what normal folks call happy hour. Then, of course, they would go home to shower and put on their men’s cologne before beginning the evening. During the week they show up with their friends, mostly all guys groups. Their women tend to be more weekend accessories. So from four o’clock until eight, we expect very little action. The real crowd comes in around nine in the evening and leave around one in the morning or later. Thank God, the old Muldoons crowd comes in, when they do, before the yuppies get there, and are gone in time to air out the men’s room before the yuppies arrive.

About two years ago we started to notice a small, still in office attire, crowd coming in around six. We didn’t know for a while that these were Enron folks. When we learned that we were having a regular Enron crowd, and when the boss himself started becoming a regular, we were too stupid to figure out that something dynamic was afoot. Now, of course, we have twenty-twenty hindsight. They started hanging out, especially the boss, when the big insider stock dumping began. If we had had any snap at all, we would have realized that the upper crust of a Fortune 500 company doesn’t hang out at Muldoons, and we could have made a bloody fortune shorting Enron stock. From now on, of course, whenever/if ever any big time executives start hanging out at Muldoons, we will be prepared with our short sell orders.

Nothing is quite so fascinating to the Irish as conspiracy. Conspiracy is, to the Irish personality, a second religion, a clandestine national sport, a temptation far greater than sex. The thought that one of the great conspiratorial financial frauds of the past decade might be carried out in Muldoons has been a compelling focus of our fantasy for over a year.
Who was Involved? What did they do? How much of it occurred in here? Will the police or the FBI or the SEC be coming round with their little Gombeen men and their subpoenas, looking for records of charges made on the credit cards of the famous and obscure who have been at the epicenter of the Enron debacle, and in the margins of it? Will they believe that we have no “house” accounts whereby someone can charge purchases without using a credit card? Will they, if they think we may be hiding anything or even emotionally siding with the conspirators in our private thoughts, have the Internal Revenue audit our tax returns, seeking to find mistakes they can then use to pressure us into giving them information about the Enron people and their shenanigans? Will they believe that we have been tipees of these scoundrels and trading upon inside information to reap our own misbegotten pittances? Will they, in pursuance of such a thread of thought, seek out and investigate our friends and relatives, thinking that we passed along trading information of a nefarious nature or parked transactions in the accounts of others to conceal our own participation out on the periphery of this drama?

And wouldn’t it be the worst sort of shame if we were to be put through all this without having made one cent, because we really were to stupid and oblivious to realize what was going on right under our Irish noses?

These thoughts and anxious considerations all came in hindsight, as we were indeed too stupid and oblivious. We are doomed, it seems, to slavishly serve alcohol, one drink at a time, to some of the great thieves of modern history without ever having had the good sense to pick up a tip or two from conversations that were going on in our very midst. Some conspirators we would make. No wonder the Irish are to this very day mired in our own version of tribalism.

But, being who we are, our fantasies had only begun at the thought of what was transpiring before our very eyes. There cannot, of course, be any convocation of Irish without at least one lawyer in the midst. And so there ensued the wildest kind of speculation about what the miscreants would be doing now that their game had become known and their cat let out of the bag, as it were.

One of them, a narcissistic yuppie Enron executive who feared more being criticized than discovered, whose core beliefs were all about taking responsibility only for successes and seeking anonymity in the presence of any missed step, ruined the interior of a perfectly good Mercedes Benz automobile by splattering it with his brains, leaving a very whiny “suicide” note, and his family to face the music, financially and otherwise, for what he had done, or for what people might think he had done. And, of course, the question would always remain – was it really a suicide, or did his fellows know him to be the coward he very obviously was and concern themselves with how easily he might succumb to the slightest police pressure, incriminating them all? Surely you don’t believe that a calculating group of thieves would shrink from a murder or two! Especially when you recognize that they would certainly not do it themselves – how unseemly – but rather hire some lesser being, perhaps an Italian or a Negro, to do it for them.

One of us suggested that maybe he had not done anything. Maybe he was a total mediocrity, languishing in obscurity and utterly frustrated that he was being completely ignored in all the excitement. Maybe he shot himself and left an incriminating suicide note solely as a means to attract some ultimate attention to himself, obtaining, at last, some notoriety about which his progeny could always boast, “My Daddy was one of the Enron crooks and killed himself.” 

This whole thing ruined one of our promotional ideas for the saloon. We had given a bit of thought to having a system installed that would permit wireless internet access to all within, so that business types could, through this means, be virtually still in their offices whilst they were, unknown to any, actually here at Muldoons enjoying a grand chardonnay, a luscious cabernet sauvignon or sampling our single malts, and all the while fingering their Personal Digital Assistants. Have you any idea how easily the muse visits when you have before you a small glass of Abelour? Creative accounting and tippling have always gone hand in hand. When you are paying your bloody accountants $ 62,000,000 a year just to confirm for all and sundry that everything you do, lawful or not, truthful or not, fraudulent or not, is but a manifestation of generally accepted accounting principles, applied on a basis consistent with prior years, that fairly presents the financial condition and performance of the company as of a date certain and for the period then ended, afternoons spent at Muldoons are hardly a grace note, and, no matter the size of the bill, so small as to be lost in an adjusting entry entitled “funds on the way to and from banks”. It is not like the situation at Petrus, that grand London restaurant, at which three investment bank vice presidents spent $ 68,000 for lunch and had the temerity to put it on their expense accounts, in expectation of reimbursement by a company whose accountants might at least genuflect at principles of reasonable accountancy.

Such a promotion would herald to every Gombeen man in America the presence of another avenue for investigation into the affairs of the high, mighty and dishonest. Not only are their financial records sheer fictionalized gestures to the capital markets, but their very presence “at the office” as it were could not be verified. And if Enron could be run from Muldoons, the possibilities become endless. 

And so, with the assistance of able counsel who had recently attended a continuing legal education seminar on the subject of how to protect your assets from all and sundry who might make claims against them, we discussed ad nauseam the brazen manner in which, having been discovered, they continued to convene in Muldoons, exposed to the vicissitudes of accessibility, sitting there, in plain sight, with their public relations advisors, their body guards and their bimbos.

And it was, of course, the lawyer who explained that, so long as the transfer itself did not make one insolvent or occur when one is insolvent, a transfer of assets to a “safe haven” jurisdiction that does not recognize foreign writs and judgments competently puts them out of reach of all those whom you may have defrauded in acquiring those assets in the first instance. And so, by dint of this maneuver, these Enron miscreants could continue to sit here at Muldoons, sipping our very best, fondling their bimbos, conniving with their public relations flacks to plant stories of how they were all church going family men who, like those beneath them, had come upon hard times in the Enron collapse, with the expectation that if enough of such stories appeared in journals of significant local repute, the victimized public would swallow them all at a gulp. For in this day and age, the oft repeated lie becomes gospel.

One of them even had his wife open a “thrift shop” to sell off their personal castoff possessions, as a gesture of their diminished lifestyle – and of course had his public relations flack plant the story of that on the front page of the Houston Chronicle.

And in the light of history, why shouldn’t they enjoy their good fortune. That they stole over  $ 200,000,000 is no big deal in America so long as you are an inside thief. Only the outside thieves go to prison for a long time. The three great swindlers of recent history, Millken, Boesky and Keating, did a total combined prison time of just under nine years. If these Enron insiders are similarly treated, it’s a small penance for the remainder of a lifetime of splendorous riches. Shit! It sure beats honest work. Tino DiAngelis, who stole millions from American Express, Ira Haupt Brokerage Company, Manufacturers Hanover Bank and Bunge Corporation, did a long stretch. But he was an outsider. Insiders are accorded special treatment.

And it was just this history that caused us one liquid evening to speculate upon what would be the best sentences to hand out to Enron executives convicted of swindling. The more pedestrian among us suggested, of course, that a judge should give out maximum sentences for each offense and run them consecutively, not concurrently. In that way, if they got ten years each on five counts, they would serve fifty years, not ten.

But the more imaginative had very creative approaches to punishment in instances like Enron, WorldCom and other similarly spectacular corporate crooks.  The most favored approach, after much distillation, seemed to be focused on the “they really need killing” retribution. To many among us, no amount of time in some country club prison for corporate criminals would possibly do justice to those who stole and destroyed the financial lives of tens of thousands of employees and investors. Those people lost almost everything they had ever accumulated, and many were simply too old to begin anew. In the case of Enron, they were practically compelled to invest in Enron stock through their company retirement/investment “trust”.

About the best sentencing scenario involved somehow getting these crooks in front of Houston criminal court judge Ted Poe, known for his creative sentencing, the use of community shame. He is the judge who makes shoplifters parade back and forth in front of a store carrying large signs that proclaim ‘I STOLE FROM THIS STORE.” In order to trigger the “They need killing” social dynamic, Judge Poe could sentence the Enron crooks to a suspended probationary sentence, conditioned upon their walking all over town with signs that loudly proclaim, “I STOLE MANY MILLIONS FROM VERY GOOD ORDINARY FOLKS LIKE YOU. I HAVE THE MONEY SAFELY HIDDEN IN OFFSHORE ACCOUNTS. WHEN I’M DONE WALKING AROUND WITH THIS SIGN IN ABOUT A MONTH, I WILL RETURN TO MY LIFE OF LUXURY AND YOU CAN ALL GO FUCK YOURSELVES!”  If this notion is effective, someone will kill the sumbitches within a week or ten days and they will effectively have been sentenced to death with no possibility of an appeal. This approach was so obviously appropriate that it was unanimously voted the best approach to criminal justice in this instance.

Be wary of large groups of stupid people. With enough money spread around in properly authoritative circles, you can have the high and the mighty, the pillars of the community, swear and vouch for the proposition that those charged with knowing everything that is going on and indeed personally directing it, may coincidentally enrich themselves at precisely the moment before collapse and credibly claim total lack of knowledge of the circumstances, refusing of course to testify under oath on advice of their counsel whose only fear is of an over reaching investigative body. If this were a rational community – the entire national body of investors, investigators, journalists and lumpen proletariat – such nonsense would result in your immediate lynching. But not, alas in Houston this day. You can steal the food from the poor, the medicine from the sick, clothing and medical care from children, and all the while pose for pictures in Muldoons as you happily tipple, fondle and connive.

But could there be out there lurking in the shadows of civilization, some enraged soul, inflamed by the injustice of everything that is happening, who, like John Wilkes Booth, will personally and upon his own initiative deal out justice of a violent sort, believing that some simply deserve to be summarily destroyed? These arrogant, posturing swindlers think themselves totally safe with the protection of the law, the notion of a due process they would never provide to anyone else, and the presence of their bodyguards. We, on the other hand, have begun to experience a sense of concern and impending doom. The scene is too tempting. Are there among these patrons some whose careers were, without fault of their own, ruined? Is someone over there somewhere swilling beer while watching these thieves sip single malt scotch, ashamed to go home because he invested everything in Enron stock and his family’s entire savings is now gone? Who is out in the parking lot ready to strike? Wasn’t it just last month that GQ Magazine ran a feature story of some poor Enron loser drowning himself in beer in Muldoons of all places. He sits there swilling and watching the big shots at the other end of the bar having a grand time, while he can’t come up with enough money to go back to South America where, before Enron, he used to enjoy life where the cocaine is fresh off the leaf. Is he a ticking bomb in here? 

And where would you find a jury who would not nullify any charged leveled against the person who killed these cocky criminals who seem beyond the reach of law? Week after week we wonder when the evening will arrive upon which we will not be paid for these drinks because someone was shot or stabbed to death before he could sign his credit card invoice. And the more we think about it, the more vivid and gory the imagined scenario becomes. As a surgeon excising a malignancy will extract as well the marginal healthy tissue, will the assassin also take out everyone in the saloon or everyone in that area of the saloon near the center of slaughter? This fantasy gradually becomes the daily concern and subject of conversation, such that we fear the intended victims may overhear and spend their cocktail money elsewhere. Perish the thought!

But, apprehension notwithstanding, someone starts a betting pool to select the date upon which the grim reaper will visit Muldoons and harvest the Enron criminals. Winner take all!

Upon further contemplation, the concern was raised that maybe the murder(s) would not take place here at Muldoons.  Someone might blow the bastards away off premises, on a freeway in a drive by shooting, at their homes, anywhere at all – the options are endless. The reason for this angst is that, having missed out on participating in the inside information trading that made these thieves such fortunes, we at least would like to capitalize upon their receiving their ultimate comeuppance right here in Muldoons. We could run all sorts of dandy promotions, all themed around the shoot out at Muldoons. Tee shirt sales would skyrocket – “MULDOONS – WHERE JUSTICE PREVAILS”. And so on and so forth, et cetera – well, just think about it. We could have drink specials like a strawberry frappe called Enron Brain Splatter. We could have a Dead Enron Executive Lookalike Contest. From now on a simple glass of tepid tap water could be called the Enron Stockholder’s/Employee’s Martini. The list of promotions would be endless. We would be placed on the national historic building register and have movies filmed here, just like the Shootout at the O K Corral in Tombstone, Arizona where the Earps and the Clantons shot it out and Doc Holiday was there. Muldoons would join the ranks of the famous bars where great authors and other luminaries used to hang out throughout the world.

In short, it would be a travesty if these people were murdered anywhere but at Muldoons.

Our angst continued to build, day by day, worrying constantly that these folks might be killed elsewhere. And so there ensued a process of trying to figure out how to assure that their violent end graced our premises. To this think tank project were brought the diverse disciplines of our inside group, a lawyer, an engineer, and several ordinary nondescript Irish conspirators who had been drinking there long enough to have become trusted accomplices. Yes – I know that trusted Irish accomplice is an oxymoron.

The most obvious and certain assurance that the blessed event would transpire on premises would be for us simply to kill the bastards ourselves, pre-empting all other options and possibilities. And what, someone asked, would be the downside of that?

Each of us could swear that the murders were done by someone who just walked in and walked up to the Enron group and started shooting. Thinking he/she was just another customer, or someone they were expecting to see, we paid no attention and cannot for the life of us even tell you what the killer looks like, how tall, color of hair or eyes, weight, what their clothes looked like, approximate age and so on and so forth. We noticed no identifying marks or tattoos, no company I D tags dangling from shirt or jacket. The killer could have been anyone. Tens of thousands of people have motives to kill the bastards. And that doesn’t even include those whose motive for the killing might be to keep them from testifying in some plea bargain arrangement. In this situation one hardly needed a Johnny Cochran to show reasonable doubt about guilt. We would walk away, protected by the constitutional shield against “double jeopardy” – they could not try us again, no matter that any later evidence might be discovered. In fact, we could go public after the acquittal and brag about our having shot the sumbitches and gotten away with it. Now that would be poetic justice! There would be parades in our honor, and the Governor of TEXAS would declare a state holiday to commemorate the grand gesture that was made by the Muldoon family of conspirators on behalf of the remediless victims of the Enron debacle  - MULDOON FEST. Willy Nelson and his friends would all show up for a brain fry every year on this holiday and perform their entire repertory of prison/drinking/alcoholism/dysfunctionalism songs. Some priest would surely come round and, for a reasonable donation either grant us a dispensation before the fact to do the killing or absolution after the fact. A few thousand dollars and an act of contrition and a civil acquittal, and we would not only be free here on earth, but in the hereafter as well. Priests are very anxious to please these days. What used to be too expensive for any but the wealthiest parishioners in the realm is dispensations, is now on fire sale as a business builder to regain the following lost to the child molestation scandals.

What have we forgotten? Oh yes! Our insurance coverage! Even assuming that we were acquitted of all charges and protected against re-prosecution, we could still end up with our insurance either cancelled or at least non-renewed. Without insurance, we would be in a tight spot. Our liquor license could be at risk. Nah! Muldoon’s girlfriend is in the insurance business and was certain that the worst we would experience is a premium rate increase, and that was happening to everyone anyway. Insurance companies are raising everyone’s rates to recover what they lost in investment income when Enron stock went into the toilet.  And the increase in business due to the notoriety would more than compensate for any incremental insurance cost.

But there was, ultimately, one giant flaw in this plan to kill the bastards ourselves, and we could not for the life of us get around it. For this to work, there could be no other witnesses in the bar when it happened. In the alternative, if there were others present, we would have to shoot them too. And that would be a problem, for who would believe that an itinerant killer killed everyone in the place except us, and just left us standing there, alive and able to give evidence. No one would believe the story. To most of us there was a great feeling of relief, not that we would shrink from murder, but that we would now be relieved of the anxiety of having to rely upon each other not to become an informer – no Irishman can resist being an informer. There has never been an Irish movie or an Irish song, or an Irish play that did not have as at least one of its themes the consequences of someone informing and then being murdered for having informed. Killing the bastards ourselves was simply out of the question.

Someone suggested that we ask Almighty God to kill the Enron crooks in some spectacular manner while they are in Muldoons. Religion is big business in TEXAS, and many believe that if you ask the Lord for help and your heart is pure and your intentions good, the Lord will provide a way. Others felt that asking the Lord to help murder people might be a bit of an imposition upon a loving and merciful God. No one knew right off the top of his memory of any instance in which God had been enlisted as a complicitor in a scheme to kill people. And yet, we were not ready to dismiss the idea out of hand without looking into it. We were desperate.

Research was done, starting with the old testament, and, sure enough, we struck pay dirt in the Book Of Judges. Starting right there with the very first verse of the very first chapter of Judges, the Israelites are said to have asked God to help them knock off the Canaanites. And, if those who claim that everything in the bible is the revealed word of Almighty God are correct, the Lord promptly said yes and the slaughter ensued. It is a pretty gory episode, something we would be thrilled to have happen to the Enron crooks right here in Muldoons. And, according to the bible, God delivered these Canaanites up for slaughter. And they were never known to have traded on inside information or to have falsified financial information and destroyed the financial security of thousands of innocent shareholders and employees. When one of them tried to run away from the slaughter, he was chased down in furtherance of God’s will, and his thumbs and big toes were cut off. This is right out of The Godfather kinda stuff. The scene where the movie producer wouldn’t give Frank Sinatra a part in a movie and he had his horse’s head cut off and put in bed with him as he slept, all bloody, was certainly inspired by the Book of Judges. The Israelis, with God’s blessing and assistance, put the torch and the sword to Jerusalem, slaughtering everyone in sight. Similarly, in chapter four of Judges, we read that in accordance with God’s will a woman named Jael seduced one Sisera, an enemy of the Israelites, and when Sisera had fallen asleep (guys always do that afterwards)  she drove a nail entirely through his head and literally nailed his head to the floor.

Apparently, there is much more really juicy material in the Bible to establish excellent precedent for our praying that something really gruesome happens to the Enron crooks while they sit tippling, fondling and conniving in Muldoons. One person suggested that the likelihood of our getting a prompt result from such praying could be remote because, of course, we aren’t Jewish. We all called him a pessimist and promptly began praying very hard for a spectacular calamity to befall these miscreants. But nothing happened. Whereupon the pessimist who predicted that we would get no divine help started the “I told you so” routine.

At this writing we are still trying to find a way to capitalize upon the swift and avenging deaths of the Enron crooks while they are having fun in Muldoons. We are not coming up with anything brilliant just now, and we don’t have a big budget for this. Were anyone simply to accommodate our fantasy, the best they could hope for might be that someone would pick up their bar tab that evening. Of course any suggestions would be most welcome.  

How fortunate we truly are! There is never a time at Muldoons when there is any lack of exciting, interesting things to chat about, plot, plan, scheme, conspire, ridicule, abuse and exaggerate. And that we are here in TEXAS, where story telling is a national past time, an art form, a stylistic exercise, adds more pleasure to every moment. We are all flawed sinners, and we cannot understand why the good Lord is being so generous toward us in this manner.

By Seamus Muldoon, Himself
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