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About Cork

Here I am, mates, narratin’ like Sir David—calm, rhythmic, yeah? Picture this: the urban jungle hums, restless, wild. Findin’ a prostitute, right? It’s like stalkin’ prey in “Memento”—all backwards, confusin’ as hell. I’m wanderin’ streets, mind spinnin’, thinkin’, “What’s the next piece?” Like Lenny, I got no memory of where I started, just clues—neon lights flickerin’, heels clickin’ soft on pavement.

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First off, I hit up the local café on Elm. You know, the one with the weird art on the walls? Yeah, that place. I ordered my usual—double shot of espresso, extra foam. But guess what? They messed it up! I got a decaf. Like, who drinks decaf? I was fuming! I mean, I need my caffeine fix to deal with the madness of Oldbawn.

The story of the haunted Tallaght road patrolled by headless horses