Tonight, though, ain't a hooker to be seen, just an old fella in a bright-yellow jacket, he's got a tin of Super T in one hand and a crumpled five-euro note in the other, stumbling towards me, garbling incoherent.
"How's it goin?" I say as I walk past, trying to diffuse the drunken temper evident in the fella's snarls.
He shouts after me. "You're a fuckin' asshole!"
Twelve hours later, having considered every possibility relating to the incident, neither The Duke nor Sir Fleming are one inch closer to understanding what offended him so. Maybe he was angry at my lack of progress with regards the filthing, maybe he could tell that it was a half-hearted escapade anyhow, and whilst my sex-limb would've been grateful for any kinda debauched developments, my soul just weren't getting behind it at all.
If maybe we took a time for to check the geography of the situation, one could easily tell that rather than hanging around this alley with the Mondo Irlando delegates, my soul was in fact hovering bove the words arriving by text message to the phone in my pocket.
"I gotta sit on a baby tonight, but we'll do something tomorrow."
I read it over a million times, and even though I knew it was a plutonic "something", since come the hell on, she's gorgeous, I still needed to breathe into a paper bag for a time, because why, I'll tell you why, cause the lass what sent yonder message, I've barely slept since she arrived, slicing the night-time round about, aye, the eyes, man, the eyes greetin mine like a naked flame in a gas-soaked 'partment.
But I don't feel equipped for to get into any a that just yet.
So yeah, we gave up on the Hooker Trail, wandered Temple Bar Square for a time, got some chow in a pasta joint cross the road from a gay bar.
Stood outside for a smoke, half-dozen butch lads cross the way started flinging looks all inquisitive in a fella's direction. All leather-jackets and muscles and shaven heads, either ironic as fuck or shameful walking clichés. Whatever the case, sorry lads, I don't tend to swing that direction less it's maybe for a fella got a song about Drunk Kid Catholics or, better yet, one who hollers bout how he killed a man for his giro.
Anyway, it would fuck the narrative senseless if I really did get screwed in some fashion, it'd diminish the pathos and the emotional kick in the stones beyond all hope.
Article comments
1 - Cerulean
Pretty exciting and exotic. I think you should make it easier to follow if you want to do something more with it, which you might. Could be a novel. One of those why I can't find love novels, where hopefully in the end you do, perhaps?
2 - Bennett
Alriiiiight! Part three tomorrow?
Thanks The Duke, I'm making plans to fly out to Dublin, 'cause it sounds damn lively to a lad living in the rolling cow hills of Vermont right now.
Can't pick a favorite line, they're all memorable.
3 - Eric Berlin
Duke -- I dug the hell out of every inch of this. You bring strange and surreal and haunted and magical days to light like no one else.
All I can ask is that you keep it coming.
Well, maybe a bright and breezy piece of the accordance of "Today the Duke ate some Cheetos, listened to some records, and had a fabulous chat with a telephone marketer" every now and again would be lovely to let us kind of take a brake and/or cleanse the palate.
You know, or something.
4 - Aaron, Duke De Mondo
hey folks!
Cerulean, thanks for the comments! i dunno that any such notions of novels or novellas or the like ever ran through a man's head, but i will agree that it's maybe fairly hard to follow, on account of the jumpin back and forth in time an the like. Is there anyone who truly hasn't a damn clue what's goin on?
Bennett, thank you! i'd imagine part three'll be fairly shortly also.
Eric, i see where you're comin from. sometimes i think im gettin too "heavy" or summit, but then i think hang on, i never actually said ANYTHIN! heh. but no, i know what you mean. part three starts with a discussion of kentucky fried chicken, so maybe that'll suffice for the meantime...
again, thanks folks!