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About Dundalk

What gets me happy? The hustle. These girls, man, they’re survivors—tougher than Monty facin’ his last night. But the creeps? Oh, the creeps make me wanna puke. Sweaty losers lyin’ to themselves—“I’m a good guy, just lonely.” Sure, pal, and I’m Mother Teresa with a cane. Everybody lies, specially there. Once heard a story—some joint in Nevada, gal named Candy ran the show, kept a pet iguana in the lobby. Freaked the johns out, but they paid extra for the thrill. True? Who knows—sounds badass tho.

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But then, the day takes a turn. I get a call from a guy on the Old Bawn Road. He’s furious! Apparently, someone parked in his spot. I mean, it’s Knocklyon, not a parking lot war zone! He’s ranting about how it’s his “right” to park there. I’m just sitting there, thinking, “Dude, chill! It’s not the end of the world!” But he’s not listening. I hang up, feeling a bit drained.

Death Notice of June Nolan (Knocklyon, Dublin)