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Michael Mulvihill
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boneidle60.jpg
Art by Gordon Purkis 2010

“Bone Idle”

 

Michael Mulvihill

 

  He regards his security officer’s uniform and badge as symbolic of bravery, courage, service, diligence and an impeccable work ethic. He believes when he wears the uniform, he has the ability to turn into a desirable entity, with enormous sexual charisma. Without the security uniform he is also irresistible to the opposite sex. He will frequently ask, “Who can resist such a stud muffin?” Following this question he will laugh out loud to himself whilst his belly explodes.  He is also compelled to have feelings of self-love because self-esteem is a very important thing to have. He decides that he should indeed answer his rhetorical question. “Nobody, absolutely nobody can resist such a complete man whore as I am.”

  He does not believe in going to the gym, doing weight lifting, any form of physical exercise or physical exertion. Nature has been too kind to Bone Idle especially with the DNA that he was born with. He does not have to get involved in any of what he calls, ‘that stupid, new age, modern stuff’. When he expresses his anti-gym feelings his face grows increasingly red and his stomach feels like it has been dipped in the flames of Hell.

  His place of work is in a reception area in Dublin’s’ city center. Most people would describe the activities here a pedestrian pace. He believes his place of work is hectic. He must appear at work punctually, sit down for a lunch break of precisely one hour and a half, return to the desk and leave at precisely eighteen hundred hours. He does not have to lock the building or open it in the morning. On occasion he is required to lift his finger.  This requirement causes inconvenience for him. He also has to push down on his finger in order to press a release button. When he hears the bell ringing to signal the car park doors to be opened, he performs the duty only under a set of conditions. He must keep the people waiting, especially if he thinks that they could be late for work or if it is raining heavily and they are cycling. He enjoys eliciting protestation, nervousness, impatience, anger, and the odd verbal and written complaint placed against him. When he has elicited his quota of responses he presses the release button and falls off his chair, his belly and sides bursting, going into convulsions of uncontrollable laughter.

  An elderly lady who has worked in this building for over forty years walks by him as he sits at the reception looking spaced out. He, in his typical form has not moved from that chair all morning long. Monica, the elderly lady who works on the third floor, comes into the building. When she sees him she recalls his behavior towards her. She pictures herself overloaded with envelopes and stationary items. She asks him if he can give her a hand. But he does not say anything. She thinks that he does not hear her properly so she asks him again. He says back to her, “No, it is not my job to do that.” She recalls his grinning, laughing at nothing hysterically, his grunts, deliberate flatulence, comments like 'the dog has finally growled.'

  She finds herself having an internal dialogue where she is giving out to him. She says, “Listen you filthy, ugly swine, this I swear: Idleness is the Devil’s plaything and you are his playboy bunny.”

  She continues to give out to him, if only in the jurisdiction of her internal mind.  He decides to look at the papers which discuss economic woes, recession, rising unemployment, increase in anti-government discourses. The world is in economic recession and Ireland and Spain are the worst nations to be economically hit in Europe, with a similar tale to tell of how they went from boom to bust. The people are not happy. The people with just reason blame the banking system, bad practice from people in top financial positions. Words such as mismanagement, corruption and fraud are used. Most importantly, protest and anger are directed at the existing political parties that are presently in Ireland.

  He is extremely angry towards the present Irish economic and political climate. He is outraged at what he calls the useless idiots ruling the country.

  While he is busy having opinions on politics and economics, the cleaning ladies are looking at him. Mavis holds a bin cover whilst Daisy takes out a garbage cover from it. Mavis says to Daisy out loud, “What do you think of that fat arsehole on the counter? Daisy responds, “Sure that arse wiping fart-face is Bone Idle. He does nothing all day long.”

  To be called Bone Idle appeals to his inner, ever present, always active, Walter Mitty Complex. He enjoys being called Bone Idle, it triggers a response in his mind. It does not matter if to be called Bone Idle is accompanied by ridicule, disparagement, disgust, it is all good. The words 'Bone Idle' have a psychological effect. He goes into hypnotic trance induced by these words. Now he experiences change. His body turns from flab, morose, profound, firmly embedded flesh, to Adonis-like musculature with an accompanying Herculean reputation. All the females in the world now lust over his body.

   Mentally he no longer sees a reception, a toilet, a lift and a storehouse. He sees a large stadium with stands filled with cheering people. What is prominent in the center of the stadium is a fighting ring. He can hear music, he feels a surge of uncontrollable energy in his body. His face is animated, he responds with great urgency to the support and well wishes of his fan base who repeatedly say, “Bone Idle, Bone Idle, Bone Idle”.

  He throws off his blazer, flings it on the ground, and his tie, “A tie is the shackles of the working classes”, he roars. He kicks his boots off and removes his socks. He rips his shirt open. All that can be seen of his torso are his fantastic, fine abdominals and strong, prominent-looking shoulders. He admires his biceps and triceps. He opens his mouth, licks and kisses his body. The only thing that he is wearing now is his thong-looking underwear he claims to be his professional wrestling uniform. He now struts up to the ring. A fan gives him a hug, she wants to give him an old Soviet Union flag, but he refuses. “The change I will bring will not come from the past,” he says looking deeply into her eyes, whilst he gives her a wink. He looks directly at the camera. “The change I bring is the future. I am the face of the future.”

  He jumps like a Kangaroo over the ropes. In his eyes you can see his warrior characteristics. He is now the wildest, most vicious lion you could ever see. He is Bruce Lee, Jackie Chan, Stone Cold Steve Austin, Hulk Hogan and Rocky all in one. Now, in his most centered, grounded way he brings his message of real and lasting reform through the medium of sport. It is time for him to speak to the people.

  “Who am I? Who am I? I am Bone Idle. Wrestling Champion of the world. Bone for crushing, fear for you, one word against me or my posse of Hell’s Angels and I will crush, devour and dismantle your bones.”

  His opponents appear ringside. Thor can be seen wearing a black mask of death and a black vest with the words, ‘Thor’, on it. Wrath of Hell wears all red. Red boots, red shorts, red vest, he wears a demonic mask. Thor acts like a mentally unstable, deranged Vietnam Veteran. He gets all Travis Bickle-like shouting, “Are you talking to me? Are you talking in my direction? If you are I am not talking to you.”

  “Yes”, Bone Idle replies, “I am talking to you. Who buster is in your army?” He defiantly asks Thor and Wrath of Hell.

  “I am Wrath of Hell, this is my wrestling brother Thor. Who buster is in your army?”

  “I do not need an army. Imitators, initiators, player haters, step aside or I will bust your asshole to the ground,” he says, beating his chest like a true warrior.

  “I am Thor and I am not your whore.”

  “To Hell with you—I am Bone Idle.”

  “Like we should be afraid.”

  “Like you should be frying in fear because I am a Gothic king and I leave my prey Bone Idle for eternity.”

  Although Thor and Wrath of Hell desperately attempt to put up a fight they don’t succeed. In his right muscled up arm is Thor and to his left Wrath Of Hell, both in headlocks. They signal to capitulate but he doesn’t acknowledge it.

  He now knows that he is the champion, he is the winner.

  “I am the peoples champion,” he announces to the crowd, who in return roar with pleasure. “I eat meat,“ he reveals, “I eat raw meat.” He takes a deep bite from the neck of Thor who starts to bleed.

 “And I have absolutely no mercy.”

  He looks at both Thor and Wrath of Hell saying to the crowd, “And do you know who these rats are? They are the political establishment.  I want change. I am what this nation needs. I really can govern Ireland.  Do I give you what you need? Do I not always give you what you need?” he shouts at a higher octane now. “Your wants are my need.”

  He throws Thor and The Wrath of Hell from ringside into the crowd. “I don’t need this crap by my side.” Members of the crowd are now whipped into mass hysteria. Women just want to touch him, some faint, cry uncontrollably, they have never seen anything like this before. Others wet themselves spontaneously.

  The crowd follows their unelected but now declared prime minister of Ireland.

  They arrive outside the gates of Irish parliament. The native television stations crowd around asking An Taoiseach how does he feel? This completely confuses Bone Idle. An older man who is a hardened supporter of his decides to prevent the opportunity of embarrassment to grow and he says whispering to him.

  “An Taoiseach is the Irish language word for Prime Minister”.

  “I am the peoples Taoiseach,” he announces to the Irish media. “A great pile of crap has come down through the years from this building. But the crap stops here, today, now. There will be no more political staff committees and statistics. I will get a few lads from the wrestling world to run the country far better than it ever has been run before. Your answer is here.” 

“Yes,” shout his supporters, who collect in swarms outside the Dail.

  “What is more to the shower that was here before,” he says whilst looking at the outside of the Irish government buildings. “I promise that you will all be put in jail.  The people of Ireland need to take back the country of Ireland. And to anyone who, especially democratically, tries to oppose me you’re going to jail. It has got to be my way or the highway.”

  Bone Idle walks through parliamentary buildings, his posse beat up the guards that are trying to protect the place. “Beat them up, beat them, more, more,” he says, “wonderful! We’re finally going to be able to run Ireland the way it really should be run, we are now in the center of power.”

  His wrestling buddies are set to occupy parliamentary seats. These guys have not read anything about Irish history, Irish constitutional law, neither do they have interest in domestic Irish politics. It’s for these reasons that he feels that they are right for the job.

  He talks to an old man who he will make second in command. “We are going to do our best to cut ourselves off from the real world diplomatically. This is how the true common man wants to run the country.  One of those journalists asked me what political models do I intend to use to run the country. If you find that journalist’s address drive over to his house with a bunch of fellow wrestlers and demonstrate to him the kind of political models I intend to use to run the country in his front living room.”

  “Oh you are evil.”

 “I’m getting the job done and it is the most responsible job that I will ever do in my entire life.”

 

 “What are you doing? What is going on?”

He can hear a voice from behind him. The surroundings suddenly return to normal, he is back at work almost completely naked.

  Familiarity does not breathe contempt, it builds up immunity to Bone Idle’s weird, eccentric, and somewhat sinister behavior. The man who stands in front of him has a top position in the building. He knows that whatever he says to Bone Idle, he will simply never lose his job.

  “Excuse me, I have been waiting for you to open the car park for the last thirty minutes. I have even had to walk all the way around to see if I could be let in.”

  “That is no way to talk to your commander. You better pray that vengeance does not come jumping on your mountain. My vengeance will eat you alive and vomit you up like the filthy beast that you are.”

 “Right”, he said, “I think I will just buy a parking ticket and park outside the building for the rest of the day.”

  “That is right, you better do what daddy says”.

  He walks away from Bone Idle angry and dissatisfied. 

  So what shall the Taoiseach do now? It does not take him long to make up his mind. He looks up interracial pornography on the net. The reception area transforms into a porn set where lesbian lovers are performing sexual acts beside him. He looks elated, like a thirteen-year old school boy.

  “Hello,” he says to Cindy, the blonde, voluptuous sex- pot and Jenny Brown, the African-American star sensation. “You know,” he says, displaying his hot body to the nymphs.

  “My favorite genre of pornography has to be interracial. I find this form of pornography most titillating, arousing and pleasing to all of my erotic zones.”

  The ladies look at him, spellbound by his masculinity and his control of the English language.

  “But,” he says, smiling widely like a Cheshire cat, “what is even more preferable to my erotic sense is interracial lesbian pornography. You two girls should have sex with me.”

  “Not so fast,” says Jenny Brown defiantly, “we have our standards.”

  “You are resisting this specimen of manly love charm? I am an important person.”

“Oh,” says Jenny Brown, “we are not rejecting you—if your witch wife finds out that we are humping you she will do nasty things to us.”

  The reality principle now invades his waters. He has been rejected. This demands restraint and boundaries. He returns in mind to the reception area where he works. He can be seen in a dejected manner putting on his uniform.

  There was truth that he refused to face.

 His true love was exiled by his witch wife. When Bone Idle started eating the dinners that she prepared him he did not know that they were filled with concoctions of spells that would alter his looks and his character.

  He knew these facts only in the deep recesses of his mind. He blocked this out by living in fantasies and telling lies about himself that served self- flattery and exaltation of his ego.

  Bone Idle took the lift to the fifth floor of the building. He took a cigarette and wished he could have thought of a more deeply satisfying solution than the one that had presented itself. Bone Idle had all his senses with him. He knew for a fact that he was not a bird and that it was completely impossible for him to fly. But he threw himself from the top of the building that he worked at. On impact he was stone dead.

 

Bone Idle knew deep within his subconscious mind that his fantasies were what maintained his life for twenty years. Bone Idle was not able to live his life. His life was lived for him. His fantasies displayed a desire to be emancipated. They were images of a life which he wished he had lived.

 

The end.

 

Big Fictions-Schizophrenia-A Description of the Subject Broken into a Full -Blown, Florid, Chronic Psychosis

 

by Michael Mulvihill

 

 

The time is now,

The story began months ago,

Now in and lacerated rational reasoning,

The “I” had been displaced over another “I,”

What a metamorphosis,

The skull is frightened by the eagle,

The pirates devoured at last by their own captive cannibals,

Cramped space more supra-divided

Into miniscule pieces upon my body,

But reality seems to look like a serpent, red, deviant, debased,

Distributed by further non-egos,

And ideas that are lies of persecution,

Co-morbidity, enjoin and conjoin,

A sterile wasteland,

What is this exaltation?

Exaltation without weighing scales,

Now even the skyscrapers look like ants,

Migrating my body in a folly of administered enjoyment,

It is said what the alternatives should be,

A boundary, a yielding, an unhurt force,

They do not want the various split thoughts to unite into one force,

To make a unitized, subjective sense

 

 

 

Monster on Every Corner

 

by Michael Mulvihill

 

 

There is a monster on every corner

Where many lambs go,

One may be dressed in lambs’ wool,

With vicious, nefariousness cradled within,

A holocaust by the few for the few,

The descent into Hell,

First step,

Everything was good,

There was nothing wrong with the day,

Second step,

This is not Dante’s name-dropping stuff,

Hell has competition,

It is here on earth,

The devil, archfiend, or Old Nick,

 

Or whatever else he wants to be called,

Got competition here on earth,

And listen up,

Because this effects you and this effects me,

 

Third step, THE STATEMENT,

You can’t make the legislation to rid evil from the planet,

Lawmakers, the law, cannot rid nor the state either cleanse the earth of wrongdoers,

Fourth step,

MAD.  By what?

Madness riveting through

Danger brewing,

Danger encompassing,

An unknown radar,

That does not suspect such danger,

Fifth step,

Who do you blame?

Has God forsaken us?

Has God forsaken us all?

Or is it fair to bring the giver of our free will in constantly to clean up messes created by people of this life?

When the deity’s home is not in this life but in the next life,

When the proudest elements of humanity is freedom,

A quality that was made from us from God the bearer of free will

 

 

Heroin

 

by Michael Mulvihill

 

 

Gone through the sinews,

I got this syringe

To dream out all my broken dreams,

 

I got this syringe to help me to equate the rhyme of a broken heart,

On the days of tomorrow,

All my blood will go,

Until then the emaciations are gradual,

Gradual and bitter,

 

See this low was the tide that I fell into,

To reach something,

 

I do not believe it is fair,

Not to tug at my veins,

To open up my body

To the world of the opiate,

 

I fall through the rocks,

The cracks that eat my heart,

Smashing my veins like a thunderstorm,

 

I don’t remember

When I first wanted to allow the syringe

To be my general

 

I want down to the end of this syringe,

Damn the souls that do not want me,

 

If I was on the mark,

There would be no syringe,

If I was on the mark there would be no heroin,

 

I once loved the heroin for emaciating me,

Leaving me dry,

Screwing my soul,

The drugs went through the veins,

I bypassed purgatory and I went straight to Hell,

 

Guilt perplexed the sinews of my soul,

Was reason a stone I flung away?

When reason was something I shredded through a drug,

And everything I know has a reaction to it,

 

Looking at the skies,

A relief flows to form,

Thanking God that these days are over,

They will fall upon me,

And demonstrate to me a catastrophe,

 

People enter, exit, reenter,

Appear, reappear, go, talk, play a silence of selective disclosure,

 

I just want to be pure of heart,

And fly from the vultures that destroy truth.

 

 

 

Mike Mulvihill is a contributor because he is a fan of the spirit that encompasses both Yellow Mama and Black Petals. He has contributed to these ‘zines since 1998. He has published short stories like ‘Bone Idle” in Yellow Mama, “The Cleaner and The Garbage Collector,” “Ethagoria Nebsonia,” and “Soul Scrubber” in Black Petals. He has contributed poems for Black Petals including a collection of vampire poems and now some poems with Yellow Mama. In March of this year he completed his first horror/surreal novel and it seems that after much searching, revising, and editing he has found a home for his book. He is writing another horror novel and intends, as per the norm, to continue submitting poems to both Yellow Mama and Black Petals. Should the inspiration seize him, perhaps, he will submit the odd short story.

His email is info@rathgartherapy.com.

 

He is, as Freud put it in his description of normality, “an approximately normal person” and will be decent enough to respond to any enquiries that he should find in his email.

In Association with Fossil Publications