The train bar is full of Metallica fans, although these fuckers are talking about the variable rates of tax
Scorn not Duplicity, although Clive Owen? What the fuck Clive Owen?
needed to buy a Ford white van and leaning near Stretch…They smell like the dust on a filing cabinet. I am not impressed. I suck the warm beer through the metal hole and imagine a rail crash where I am the only survivor. It makes me happy.This is the day…Metallica are playing Jacob Marlay amphitheatre in sight of the mountains of Dubalin. I spit up and laugh. Very excited.
Fuckface phones.
“Where yo monkey ass at?”
“Whisht” I say, whimsically I think.
“We are luxuriating in the Palace. We may have taken something.”
“What does that mean? Order me a Smithwicks dipshit.”
I get there and see Fuckface hunched over the bar. He is feeling his way under the bar. Our other friend, My Irish Molly, is holding onto his legs and shouting hysterically. There is no one else in the pub apart from two Italian tourists drinking glasses of Guinness and whispering. When they see I have joined my comrades, they realise that when the shit eventually hits the fan, they will be outnumbered and leg it.
Fuckface sees me, screams METALLICA, and slips over the bar onto his back. The elderly barman repeatedly pokes him in the chest with a broom handle. My Irish Molly looks at me as if to say “I have done all I can” and sits back on the bar stool and contemplates aloud the robbery of a psychedelic picture of Luke Kelly. The barman wallops him across the side of the head and tells us never to come back. I tell the dudos that overpowering the barman and taking over the pub might lead to an incident which their fragile minds may have no coping mechanism for. I think we should head.
“Stag’s Head?” shouts My Irish Molly.
“What? No let’s head.”
“Stag’s Head?” shouts My Irish Molly.
“eh fine…I need to catch up with you fools.”
We eventually cross the street at Dame Street after a least four false starts. Cars real and imagined are apparently “after” us. Jesus, it’s two in the afternoon and I’m already wringing my hands. Fuckface cajoles me into singing the intro to White Zombie’s “Black Sunshine.”
“Gripping the wheel his knuckles went white with desire! The wheels of his Mustang exploding on the highway like a slug from a .45. True death: 400 horsepower of maximum performance piercing the night. This is Black Sunshine!”
A cop stops us and in classic Irish POLIS fashion says,
“Having a good time lads?”
Unsure whether this was a rhetorical question we ran away. Well I did, the others just thought they did and stood there panting.
“What can you mean?” said My Irish Molly…
“What are you?” said Fuckface.
to be furthered
Pointless drivel