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About Dundalk

Oi, mate, I’m Loki—smug mischief, “I am burdened with glorious purpose,” y’know? So, escort—yeah, that sleek Ford beast! Not talkin’ hookers, nah, the car, ya filthy git! Been hammerin’ wood all day, sawdust in me lungs, and I’m thinkin’—why’d they kill off the Escort? Proper gutted me, that did! Used to see ‘em everywhere—zippy lil’ bastards, tearin’ up the streets. Now? Nothin’. Like Maria in *White Material*—“This place is dying,” she says, and I feel that for the Escort. Gone, forgotten, scrapped!

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So, I wake up, right? Sun’s shining, birds chirping, all that jazz. I’m like, “Sweet, today’s gonna be easy.” But then I step outside on St. Agnes Road, and boom! The smell of fried food hits me. I swear, the chipper on the corner was frying up something fierce. I could practically taste the vinegar from the fish and chips.

Death Notice of Ken Griffin (Crumlin, Dublin)