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So, this one time, right, I met this chick—Lola, swear she was a legend. Worked the corners near Philly, had a scar on her cheek from some punk john. Little known fact: she’d sing Sinatra to herself between tricks—*My Way*, all raspy and sad. “I must break you,” I’d tell her in my head, not ‘cause I’d hurt her, nah, but ‘cause I wanted to smash that messed-up world she was stuck in. She’d laugh, say, “Apollo, you aint shit,” but her eyes? Man, they screamed for a knockout punch to escape.

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Finally, I get my food. It’s hot, crispy, and oh-so-good. I sit by the water, enjoying the view. The sun’s setting, and it’s all golden and pretty. But then, outta nowhere, a seagull swoops down and snatches a chip right off my plate! I’m yelling, “Hey! That’s mine!” But the bird just flies off, chip in beak, like it’s the king of the world. I can’t even.

Title decider ends in home heartbreak for gallant Arklow