My friend Rory Edward and I go exploring. He is of a similar disposition, though largely more animated than I, and able to deal with the many difficult situations our type finds itself in quite regularly.
Nightclubs don’t usually appeal to me but often we end up in one regardless. Everything here is fuelled by violence; a subtle yet familiar stench of competing hormones drifts eagerly though the air.
“I saw a man on Baggot Street, and he looked just like Billy Gibbons. He really did. I stared at him, and he sort of swung his arms and pointed.”
I drink my… whatever this thing is… and wonder who the hell is Billy Gibbons.
“I worried for months… Was it him? Was it not him?” continues Rory. “I was completely obsessed with that moment for a long time. But, then I realised just how much it really didn’t matter at all.”
“Who is Bil…”
“Nobody ever shits in public. D’ya ever notice that? We’ll readily piss on any corner or doorway, but shitting is still forbidden. Why is that?”
I shake my head… “Dunno.”
“Every now and again, I go out and take a shit on a building. Just, you know, to let it know who’s boss.”
“Not just any building, either. There are certain buildings that just deserve to be shat on. The Central Bank, for example.”
He pauses for a moment, as if contemplating something.
“Some day, I will stand on the roof of that building, holding Enda Kenny’s head in the air.”