What really gets me is the Garda thinking they’re all that. They waltz into the pub and drag me out onto the side of the road? And for what? For hitting that little wanker Pad Riley? He deserved what he got. If they asked anyone they would have said “ah yeah well he deserved it really”. Mrs. Henshaw gave me a pat on the back when she heard the news. She told me “Davey, I heard you gave that little bastard Pad a good thump.” And I said, “Bloody sure I did, that’ll teach that little prick to key my punto.” And sure it wasn’t that hard a whack, didn’t even dent my bumper. Scratched the paint is all, left a brighter red on the car than I’m used to, but apart from that like, it was grand. I did all those fuckers a favour and when the pigs come round they don’t utter a single word. They stay silent like the little sheep they are, none of them brave enough to do what needed to be done. Load of fucking sheep, the lot of them! Well that’s not me, I’m no sheep, I’m a man who gets things done. The Garda will never understand that, they strut around with their little stab proof vests, no good against a farmer’s rifle, and think they own the fucking place. None of them has the guts to do what I did, none of them has the bloody, what’s it called..., inclination! They think they know best. I’ve known many Garda and the only thing they know is which end to stuff Maire Hoolahan’s muffins in. Bunch of blaggards, little fucking high horse blaggards. And sure, I didn’t think my little car would do that much damage, only enough to scare the little shit. Ah well, I’ll make them understand, one way or another.
top of page
bottom of page
Comments