The Emerald Lie

Everything about Pat Maloney was big.

His ego

His car

His girth

But especially his mouth.

He ordered a pint like this:

“Do me a Black.”

A man beside him said,

“Tut, tut, surely you mean, may I have?”

Pat only glanced at him, a puny bollix, but then most seemed simply tiny. He said,

“Fuck off before I land me shoe in yer hole.”

The man gave what might have been a delighted giggle, said,

“Oh, how you trample on the sacred ground.”

Pat was distracted by his mobile and began one of those all too common exchanges of loudness and bravado. He sank most of his pint during this tirade of ostentation. When he finished, the annoying guy had disappeared. After a feed of drink Pat developed that drinker’s lust for fast food. It had to be greasy, a caloric riot.

He settled for Supermac’s, though greasy wasn’t their forte. Their pièce de résistance was curried chips, sprinkled with melted cheese and very, very large. He ordered an extra-large Dr Pepper and said to the girl when his food arrived, as he handed her a five-euro note,

“Keep the change, darling.”

There was no change unless you consider two cents that. Outside he savaged the chips, cheese running down his shirt, the wife would clean it — it was her job. He dropped the packaging, all messy and leaking, right beside a litter bin.

Then headed into the nearby alley to urinate.

As he let flow, he emitted a huge belch and thought,

“Life is fucking mighty.”

A voice said,

“According to goddess Truss, it is generally accepted that familiar contractions such as bus (omnibus) no longer require apostrophes.”

Then his head was crushed by a ferocious blow to the skull.