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The Irish Irish / Part 2
by Gregory Wilde  /  fiction  /  15 Sep 2007

Manchester United won the game with a final goal in the last second.  The bar erupted with applause, and the bartenders poured free shots of whiskey to the Irish Irish.  Julian was able to get a shot, or probably two, while I ordered another Guinness and a shot of tequila.
           At five-thirty we exited the bar with a good high and headed down Grafton Street.  On our way to the bus stop, we saw some Trinity College kids standing at the entrance, smoking cigarettes and holding textbooks.  Julian laughed and said how snobbish they were.  He went on and on about Queen Elizabeth founding Trinity College, and the school following an English tradition of not requiring Gaelic as a language of study.  Every other Irish university requires at least two years of Gaelic, leaving Trinity the one and only exception.
            "It's just another way to let those bloody English on our doorsteps again," Julian said, in the direction of the students.
            We took a bus to suburbs of Dublin, near Phoenix Park, and past the Guinness factory.  The roads were quiet and lined with beautiful rolling lawns, making it clear how Dublin centre is smaller than I originally assumed.  The bus began to pull uphill past Phoenix Park, where miles upon miles of green pastures amalgamated into one another, creating a mysterious emerald mirage.  Occasionally, a cow or two would appear at the side of the road, with a farmer trailing behind.
            The streets were getting ritzy, as the bus continued its route through the suburbs.  The houses were growing, and the lawns were grander and brighter, with jaded grass cut like crisp putting greens.  The bus slowed down and finished its route just shy of the gated community.  We got off and walked to the guard shack, where the security officer recognized Julian and let us in.
            The homes were massive and eloquent, and the cars in the driveways were Mercedeses, Jaguars, and Peugeots.  Julian stopped and pointed to a three-story house at the end of a block.  He sucked a rage of nicotine into his bloodstream and squinted his eyes.
            "That's that fuck Collin Farrell's house," he said.
            "No shit," I said.
            "Sellout.  Can't stand him.  Ruined the neighborhood movin' 'ere."
            Julian walked closer to Farrell's house and screamed, "Bloody arse!"
            We waited for a few minutes, but Collin didn't come out for a cameo.
            We zigzagged down the road, en route towards a massive three-story house sitting on an acre of land at the end of the block.  When we reached the house, its back door was open, and a loud noise was streaming from inside.  Julian wanted to wait a minute, so we stood in the middle of the yard, finishing our cigarettes and watching our smoke weave into the cool Irish air.  The sun was starting to set below the hills and trees, forming a purple and gold sunset.
            "Amazing.  Is it always like this?" I asked.
            "Not really, at times, this time of year I guess." Julian said, and sighed.
            "You all right, mate?"
            "Nervous is all.  Haven't seen my cousin in a month."
            Julian pulled his bed-head hair and took another drag.
            "Why're you worried?" I said.
            "Ah, we're babes, but she's suspicious of me and 'er friend, Nicky.  Haven't called 'er back, reckon she's 'ere, that's her car in the drive."
            "Fuck, haven't told me cousin yet!  I'm trying to end it with Nicky without her findin' out.  Don't reckon she'll be cool about it, fucking 'er friend."
            "She'll be fine."
            "I bet."
            "This is an amazing house."
            "Yeah.  Best neighborhood in Dublin, shite Ireland in fact!  Million euro just to consider moving 'ere."
            "They's got the money.  My pop's doing all right, but not this grand."
            "Let's go.  It's getting cold."
            "Cold?  Shite, John!  Listen though, mate.  My cousin, just warning you, you're her type, and I know her type."
            "That's a good thing."
            "Yeah but," Julian chuckled and grinned, "She knows what she wants.  Real looker and all, but 'er father's a nut.  Fuckin' crazy, crazier than the craziest laughers in Ireland."
            "That's pretty crazy."
            Julian and I lit another pair of cigarettes.
           "Fuck, mate this is fun.  If things start to develop, you know, fuck, I'll let you know when he gets home from work. Dad usually goes to the pub and passes out downstairs."
           "Right then.  You've been warned, mate.  Let's hit um."

            Julian entered the house first.  His cousin was in the kitchen with a vacuum cleaner in her hand, sucking some spilled coffee grinds on the marble floor.  She looked up at Julian and gave him a hug.  Then she turned off the vacuum cleaner and stared at me.

            "Who's this?" she said.

            "My sis's ex, whatever.  It's over," Julian said.  "He's over her, we had a few at Reds, watching United kick royal arse!"

            "They won?" she said.

            "Fucking good game babes, came down to the last tick."

            "Ah, Grand!  But shite, Julian, why'd you bring him 'ere?  He staying then?"

            I didn't know what to say.  I had to say something.  She acted like I was an unlawful intruder, someone who broke into her house and demanded diamonds at gunpoint.  So much for that Irish charm.

            "Can he?  He's sleepin' at Globetrotter's hostel."

            "Globetrotter's?" she said, "I thought he was staying at your 'ouse?"

            "No, no it's not like that," I said.

            "You're sure?" she said.

            "Of course, we're done," I said.

            "Okay then, of course you can stay.  I thought you were sleeping with 'er."

            "Nah, not any more."

            "Thank God!"

            "Not a fan of my sis," Julian said, winking.

            "She's a div.  God what a migraine."

            She smiled and waved me into the living room.  Julian walked into the kitchen.

            "Julian!" she said.

            "Yeah babes," Julian said.

            "Get some drinks.  We're drying up."

            She laughed and told me to sit wherever.  I nodded and sat across from her on a love seat, adjacent to the hallway.  The song "Norwegian Wood" played in my mind, and I tried not to smile.

            "Nice pad," I said.  I just couldn't put those Lennon lyrics behind me.

            I once had a girl, or should I say, she once had me, she showed me her room, isn't it good, Norwegian wood?

            "Neighborhood was better until that cock, Collin Farrell moved 'ere.  You see the 'ouse?  I knew the owners before him, grand people."

            "I showed him the house on the way over," Julian said, in the hallway.  He handed her and me pints of Harp.

            "Farrell looks to be home, though," Julian said.

            "We should go over there.  I saw him the other day reading the Irish Times on his stoop.  What a poser."

            "Shitter," Julian chimed in.

            "Don't get me going, baby."

            She got up and sat down next to me on the love seat, flipping hundreds of television stations until arriving at a music video that sounded familiar.  It was the Stereophonics and the song was "Mr. Writer."  If it was "Norwegian Wood," I might have fainted.

            "Ah, grand," I blurted out.

            "Yeah they're brilliant," she said, speaking in a raspy whisper now.

            "Hey, is Nicky 'round, babes?" Julian said.

            "Yeah, out back.  She's waiting for yah."

            "Cheers, I'll be out back, John."

            Julian winked at me and walked into the kitchen, where I heard the patio door slide open and close.

            "So how long you 'ere for?" she asked.

            "Another few days.  What's your name again?  I'm sorry, I don't remember."

            "Alison, I didn't tell yah, you dope."

            "Cool.  Nice to meet you, Alison."

            "John, right?"

            "Yup."  I took a gulp of beer and smiled.  The alcohol was working.

            "That's easy.  My brother's named John."

             "Where's he then?" I said.

            "At university.  Might be back tomorrow, don't really know his schedule changes like a doctor."

            I licked my lips and looked around the living room, then accidentally into her eyes.

            "Like Dublin so far?" she said.

            "From what I've seen, I can say it's getting better all the time."

            "Ah that's sweet.  I know it's not the most exciting place, but it's better than Cork or Belfast.  I like it.  You have to like the cold and the shadows, and the mystics."

            "I do like the mystics," I said.

            "Dublin's pretty dark and ugly.  Wasn't even built by the Irish.  So it's not really Irish Irish."

            "True.  That's really true."

            "Hey, John.  Can you give me a massage?  My back's really biting from yesterday at the gym."

            Alison turned her back around and pushed her ass into my crotch.  Then she took the blonde hair from her neck and made a schoolgirl ponytail.

            "A back massage then?"  I said.

            "That'd be so grand."

            "How's this feel?"

            I began to move my hands along her shoulder blades, and across her back.  I warmed my hands and slipped them under her shirt.   Her skin was beautiful.  A white glow that was soft and pure, like porcelain.  I pushed her shirt up and cupped my hands on her breasts.

             "Oh, that's grand," Alison said.

            "You're beautiful," I said, pressing my crotch into her rear.

            "You're a sweet thing," she said.

            Alison moved her body further into mine.  I ran my hands over her hips, and over her stomach, into her panties.  She turned to face me, her breath as hot as steam.  We kissed, spreading our lips apart and moving our tongues back and fourth.  It felt like I knew her for centuries.

            I held her breasts and felt the softness of her white skin against the back of my hands.  We took each other's pants off, and she began to suck me.  I held her blonde hair and watched her take me in.  I felt the world melt away.

            A condom ripped open from my wallet and I was inside her.  She was on top of me, wrapping her legs around my stomach, rocking her body up and in.  I sucked her nipples and kissed her mouth and licked her neck.

            "I love the Irish," I said, "Oh, god, I love the Irish."

            "It's our soul," she said.  Alison ran her fingers over her chest and into my mouth.

            I almost lost it.  Her thick breathing rushed through my hair and down my neck.  The sweat from her face joined her saliva, and it fell into my mouth.  Then her movements became hard and rapid, moving the loveseat from the wall.  I held her hard as she went into orgasm.  When Alison peaked, I ejaculated while looking into her eyes.  Then it ended, and Alison fell to my chest and started again.

            Then my life almost ended.  A door slammed into the night, and a shot adrenalin pushed my body so fast that I nearly collapsed with fear.

            I turned around to see a man in a black suit standing in the kitchen with a briefcase in his hand.  He swallowed his saliva and blinked.

            "You're dead," he said.

            The marble floor hit the briefcase, and he ran up the stairs.  I hunted for my clothes, spread on the floor, and put them on faster than lightening.

            Alison was shaking, her nipples still erect, and her body drenched in sweat.  I couldn't hear a thing.  My heartbeat was between my ears.

            But I saw Alison mouth run, and I did.

            I ran into the kitchen and heard the father scurrying down the staircase.  I opened the patio door and locked it closed.  I ran into the backyard, looking for Julian.  I found him with Nicky, making love under an old oak tree.

            "Run," I said, "damn it!"

            "What?" Julian said.

            "Run, her father's fucking home."

             I saw a hunting rifle pass through the living room window.  The father ran into the kitchen and tried to open the patio door.  I thought the lock would stop him, but he walked into the kitchen and grabbed a wine bottle.  He threw the bottle into the glass door, and everything shattered.  The wine ran like blood over the pavement.

            "Run," Julian screamed.  He grabbed his shirt and pants, while stumbling through the yard and to the street. We sprinted into the road looking behind us, checking to see if the father would actually chase us through the streets with a hunting rifle.

            He did.

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