McFuck
17th June 2003, 04:36
I was walking to work the other day, when who should I see, but the neighbourhood drug dealer. Not wanting him to destroy the planet with his evil habit, I decided to destroy him, right then and there. I walked up to him, and said, "You sir, are a cad! I despise you, and everything you stand for". He thanked me for my honesty, and continued about his daily business. I was late, so I sped off towards the factory.
Upon entering work, I saw that Jimmy, the drug dealer's brother, standing by the water dispenser. "Howaya, I just saw Mikey down in the village, he still owes me money"
He muttered about it being his brother's business. He was a quiet, conniving asshole. I didn't trust his devious eyes or his devious face. I walked away.
Three days later, they beat the hell out of me.
It was quick; his fist, when it smashed into my face. The knee it the groin was half as fast and twice as painful. I was drunk as a skunk, and probably would have fallen over soon enough regardless, had his empty bottle of Bulmers not smashed into the back of my skull at a quarter past twelve. The area around me erupted in violence. Blood and Bulmers splattered on my jacket as I lost consciouness. I never had been fond of that pub.
We had pretty much won the fight. We'd broken more bottles over more heads, and even had a broken nose to our score (Murtagh's blood had been the blood splattering on my jacket, as he fell and knocked over his pint). The unfortunate thing was that we'd have to go and see one of the lads in court, because he'd been giving the garda� (Irish police) serious abuse outside McSorley's when it shut. Damo was always like that; any time there were cops around he started giving them lip. He's had himself bet around by them a few times. He'll never learn.
Upon entering work, I saw that Jimmy, the drug dealer's brother, standing by the water dispenser. "Howaya, I just saw Mikey down in the village, he still owes me money"
He muttered about it being his brother's business. He was a quiet, conniving asshole. I didn't trust his devious eyes or his devious face. I walked away.
Three days later, they beat the hell out of me.
It was quick; his fist, when it smashed into my face. The knee it the groin was half as fast and twice as painful. I was drunk as a skunk, and probably would have fallen over soon enough regardless, had his empty bottle of Bulmers not smashed into the back of my skull at a quarter past twelve. The area around me erupted in violence. Blood and Bulmers splattered on my jacket as I lost consciouness. I never had been fond of that pub.
We had pretty much won the fight. We'd broken more bottles over more heads, and even had a broken nose to our score (Murtagh's blood had been the blood splattering on my jacket, as he fell and knocked over his pint). The unfortunate thing was that we'd have to go and see one of the lads in court, because he'd been giving the garda� (Irish police) serious abuse outside McSorley's when it shut. Damo was always like that; any time there were cops around he started giving them lip. He's had himself bet around by them a few times. He'll never learn.