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About Cork

So I’m strollin’ downtown, all grimy, smellin’ like a damn campfire. Lookin’ for a girl who don’t care bout that. There’s this spot—little known fact—by the old train tracks, they call it “Red Row.” Been around since the 1800s, whores used to bang railroad guys there. History’s wild, right? Makes me smirk, thinkin’ bout it. “Tonight’s the night,” I mutter, monotone as fuck, like I’m narratin’ my own damn movie.

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So, I’m mindin’ my own business, right? Just doin’ my rounds, checkin’ on the shops on the Greenhills Road. Then, outta nowhere, I see this fella, right? He’s tryin’ to sell some dodgy knock-off watches. I mean, c’mon, mate! You think I don’t know a fake when I see one? I had to step in. “Oi, mate! You can’t be doin’ that here!” He looks at me like I’m the bad guy. Like, really? I’m just tryin’ to keep the peace!

Death Notice of Fran (Francis) Mooney (Tallaght, Dublin)