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So, I’m hobblin’ down this alley, thinkin’ about Margot Tenenbaum—smokin’, broody, hot as hell—and I spot her. She’s leanin’ on a wall, all “I’m not a junkie” vibes. Lies. I ask, “How much?” She smirks, “Depends what you want, grandpa.” Grandpa?! That pissed me off—wanted to shove my cane where the sun don’t shine. But I laugh, ‘cause it’s funny, her thinkin’ she’s got the upper hand. “Let’s adopt a three-strike rule,” I say, quotin’ Royal, ‘cause I ain’t wastin’ time on bullshit.

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Finally, the lights flicker back on. Thank the heavens! I’m feeling a bit better, but then I get a call from my mate, Seamus. He’s in a bit of a pickle. Apparently, he’s locked himself out of his flat on the Letterkenny Road. Classic Seamus! I can’t help but laugh. I mean, who locks themselves out in their own home? I tell him I’ll swing by after work.

Death Notice of John Barrett (Letterkenny, Donegal)