I prowled down Clabrassil Street looking left and right. So many people. Jesus, I really fucking hate people.
I skipped across the road without even looking. Cars screeched, horns were tooted at me. I stopped in front of one fucker in his 7 Series BMW who thought blowing his horn would frighten me. I stared right at him, he got nervous, looked the other way, took his hands off the steering wheel and checked his doors were locked. Cunt, as if I’d waste my time with him anyway.
I continued down the road, past St Patrick’s catherdal, up the hill towards Christchurch. There was purpose in my stride, I could see people looking at me, crossing to the other side of the street to get away from me. They could sense danger. Even the most stupid of them. I went down Castle Street and onto Dame Street, past that hideous new building opposite the Olympia. What were they thinking?
Through the lane and out onto George’s Street then down Exchequer Street. I didn’t know exactly where I was going, just following my nose, I suppose. Wicklow Street, I paused to look in the window of Brown Thomas, the delicate little guy with the silk scarf around his neck dressing the window looked petrified, even though there was glass between us. I continued up Grafton Street, it was busy but nobody got in my way.
Half-way up, outside Bewleys, I could see the gypsy woman begging. She came towards me. These people know no fear. Big mistake. She was carrying a small baby. What was I supposed to do? As she got near me I suddenly made a grab for the child, ripping it from her mother’s arms and then devoured it in a mess of blood and guts and crunching bone. The gypsy woman started to wail. I looked at her and she shut up as I ate the feet of her child, the last remaining parts.
As I spat out some gristle and made to keep going up the street I felt a hand on my shoulder. I span around, ready to snap but I knew the scent.
“You bad boy, Bastardface”, said Twenty, “I told you not to go wandering around town, didn’t I?”
I shrugged my big shoulders. What’s a dog to do?
He clipped the lead on me and we went home as the gypsy woman produced another baby from under her shawl and kept working the crowd.
The oul bouler will have a buke out soon as well.
Great work Twenty, but you’re taking an awful chance. Someone will be pointing out the dog is the best writer in the family…
But I’ve drawn their sting for now.
Twenty that is a talented dog being able to grab the child from the mother. Id guess the wee bain is better off now in Heaven.
Poor Bastard Face – do you think it could be his diet – maybe he needs more fibre? Do they have doggy-yoga in Dublin?
My dog keeps eating the big issue as well.
Your dog now has ROMA.I.D.S.
Well, at least he didn’t get knocked down on his travels and leave you to pay the bill. I hope you have him chipped, but I suppose with his savagery tendencies you’d be sued every other day.
good to see the dog believes in the stereotype regarding gypsies too.
not only is ireland full of racists; so are it’s animals
Woof woof woof woof grrrrrrrrrr
Bastardface would eat any flavour baby. He’s not racist.
That was a naice story. I like.
Was the walk directed by the Coen brothers?
No Muzzle
No Lead
Licence ??????
I blame the owner…..
Today my Guardian Angel told me to be a spoilsport.
;)
Were you and that dog anywhere near the roundabout where you go from the M1 to the M50? Only there is a one legged beggar there, whom when I shouted “Leave McCartney alone you cunt” looked very confused. Her dirty stump did look a little chewed.
the gypsy woman produced another baby from under her shawl
So that’s where babies come from! I never believed that gooseberry bush crap.
Best thing youve ever written, seriously,not an insult.
Was bastardface following me to work?! Thats my exact route.
Fucking dog.
I know he’s a dog and I appreciate that his spelling could be a little off as a result and I therefore hate to be critical, but “Span”? I mean, really.