Mal was at the beach today. It was exceptionally hot.
“Wife,” he called, speaking left, “I wish for myself to receive a drink of coffee. I will go and purchase one instantly.”
He didn’t wait for an answer, suspecting anyway that his wife was asleep in the noontime sun, garnering a tan that could be seen by anyone wearing sunglasses. Anyone else would be rendered blind for it was spectacular. Mal set off to the coffee van, located rather conveniently just a short walk from where he placed his towel and his bucket and spade. Some would call it fate, others coincidence, but Mal smiled slyly to himself as the debate raged around him because he had in fact planned it weeks before after observing the routine of the coffee vendor.
As he walked to the coffee vendor, his salt and pepper chest hair earned him many admiring glances from the beach dwellers sexually tilted in favour of sleeping with him, some scantily clad and others in many more clothes than would be recommended for such an excursion. His smile that came from his soul was plain to see and he could only imagine how majestic his dark roasted coffee was going to taste.
Just before he joined the queue behind a woman with inconsequential features but ludicrous eyebrows who may or may not have been called Rosemary (it doesn’t matter, she’s an impromptu addition and filler for the word count), a butterfly landed on his shoulder. It was magnificent. In his shirtless state about to get his favourite coffee, receiving admiring glances from men, women and dogs and having better eyebrows than the young, shallow idiot in front of him, he became transformed. It was almost immediate.
This butterfly was God’s Holy Spirit, part of the trinity if you subscribe to that notion, and by landing upon the chosen Mal he was immediately granted the title of Pope, and he was such a brilliant Pope he was named twice, for Pope Mal Mal was his name, and he was loved and revered by all and many, although he did accidentally crash his Popemobile during a race against Batman and rendered it an insurance write-off.
Nevertheless, the world was never the same again, and Pope Mal Mal eventually got ideas above his station and was promptly crucified by the croupiers at Caeser’s Palace in Las Vegas before he was resurrected to heaven two days later, prompting chocolate makers to fashion his likeness out of their favourite medium.
Thus concludes this pointless tale with no moral, unless you have spotted one in here somewhere and decide you wish to live your life by it’s code, which of course is your prerogative but comes with a health warning.
© Kris Blackburn 29/07/2015