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About Drogheda

But, yo, it ain’t all roses, nah. Some of these girls, they’re trapped, y’know? Pisses me off—fuckin’ pimps, greasy bastards, squeezin’ ‘em dry. Makes my blood boil, seein’ that shit. Like, who’s writin’ their story? Not them, that’s for damn sure. Reminds me of Hans Landa, that slimy prick—controllin’, manipulatin’. “You don’t like me? That’s your problem!” I’d tell ‘em, if I could.

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Then, outta nowhere, it starts pouring. I mean, like, monsoon-level rain. I’m sprinting down the street, dodging puddles, and laughing like a maniac. I duck into a shop on the corner of the village. It’s cozy, and the smell of fresh bread hits me. I grab a pastry, and the lady behind the counter gives me a wink. I’m thinking, “Maybe I should move here for good.”

Death Notice of Mary McLOUGHLIN (née Monahan) (Castleknock, Dublin)