Sarah Foxrock Brothel ❤️

About Swords

So, this one joint, right, down by the docks—heard a tale, swear it’s true. Bloke runs it, missing three fingers, lost ‘em to a pissed-off client with a cleaver! Fella still grins, toothless, like it’s a badge. Made me laugh, then gag—bloody mess, that. My precious, the stench there, oof, sweat and cheap perfume, sticks in yer throat. Gets me mad, y’know? Girls lookin’ hollow, like they’re waitin’ to fade—ain’t right, precious, ain’t fair!

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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 William Clayton Love (Foxrock, Dublin)