Episode 5189: Dark Enigma - The Man Who Just Wouldn’t Die or The Plot To Kill Michael Malloy

Please be aware the stories, theories, re-enactments and language in this podcast are of an adult nature and can be considered disturbing, frightening and in some cases even offensive.  Listener Discretion is therefore advised. 

Welcome heathens welcome to the world of the weird and unexplained.  I’m your host, Nicole Delacroix and together, we will be investigating stories about the things that go bump in the night, frighteningly imagined creatures, supernatural beings and even some unsolved mysteries but I promise all sorts of weirdness.  So, sit back, grab your favorite drink, and prepare to be transported to today's dark Enigma.... 

And on today’s Dark enigma well, we had an interesting listener suggestion… well I found it fascinating, and I hope you do too!  So, with that said, we will still be playing our drinking game and as you know, the drinking game is only for those of us that are at home and have nowhere else to go tonight.  The choice of libation, as always my darlings, is yours, so choose your poison accordingly… Alright, now for the game part how about every time I say alcohol that will be a single shot and every time I say Insurance, that will be a double shot.  Now that the business end is out of the way we can jump headfirst into today’s dark enigma… so don your best Sherlock gear, grab your big magnifying glass and let’s dive into today’s offering of  The Man Who Just Wouldn’t Die or The Plot To Kill Michael Malloy.

The plot to kill Michael Malloy for life-insurance money seemed foolproof—until the conspirators actually tried it The plot was conceived over a round of drinks. One afternoon in July 1932, Francis Pasqua, Daniel Kriesberg and Tony Marino sat in Marino’s eponymous speakeasy and raised their glasses, sealing their complicity, figuring the job was already half-finished. How difficult could it be to push Michael Malloy to drink himself to death? Every morning the old man showed up at Marino’s place in the Bronx and requested “Another mornin’s morning, if ya don’t mind” in his muddled brogue; hours later he would pass out on the floor. For a while Marino had let Malloy drink on credit, but he no longer paid his tabs. “Business,” the saloonkeeper confided to Pasqua and Kriesberg, “is bad.”