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About Cork

Oi, mate, so brothel, yeah? Shaken, not stirred, I reckon it’s a wild gig. Me, James Bond, head of the lab, suave as fuck, I’ve seen some shit. Brothels ain’t just sex dens, nah, they’re history lessons with tits. Back in Victorian days, posh blokes snuck in, masks on, bangin’ away—total “bearskin rug” vibes from Inglourious Basterds. “That’s a bingo!” I’d yell, watchin’ em stumble out, trousers half-down.

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Then, outta nowhere, this kid bursts in. He’s like, “Mister, my shoe’s broken!” I look down, and it’s a total disaster. The sole’s hangin’ on by a thread. I’m thinkin’, “How do you even do that?” But I can’t be mean, so I say, “No worries, buddy. I gotcha.” I fix it up, and he’s grinnin’ like he just won the lottery. Kids, man. They’re so easily pleased.

Death Notice of Michael DARCY (Cabinteely, Dublin)