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About Drogheda

So, last week, I’m prowlin’—growling, “You merely adopted the dark.”—and I spot this bird, all fishnets and attitude. Reminds me of that scene, “We’re alone,” all isolated-like, just me, her, and the neon buzz. I’m thinkin’, “Mate, she’s either a jackpot or a fuckin’ setup.” Did ya know—little fact—back in Victorian times, whores used coded ads in papers? “French lessons,” my arse—sneaky bastards. Anyway, I’m chattin’ her up, heart poundin’—fuckin’ thrilled, yeah? But then—bam—some geezer rolls up, all aggro, demandin’ cash. Pissed me right off! I’m like, “Oi, cunt, I ain’t your ATM!”

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Then, outta nowhere, this lady runs up to me. She’s all frantic, waving her arms like she’s trying to take off. Turns out, her kid, little Sarah, is stuck in the kiddie pool slide. I’m like, “How do you even get stuck in a slide?” But I sprint over, and there she is, just sitting there, looking confused. I mean, come on, it’s a slide, not a black hole! I help her out, and she’s all smiles. I’m like, “See? No biggie!” But the mom? She’s crying like she just won the lottery. Ratoath moms, man. They’re intense.

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