Tick Tock

GO HOME STUPID BASTERDS!

I stood there holding my hungover head in my hands. The sons of bitches had come onto my porch in the middle of the night? I guess my scare tactic over at the Flaherty compound hadn't gone as well as I'd hoped. This was really getting nuts now.

"Seems like Flaherty gets his spelling lessons from Quentin Tarantino," Seamus said in his bathrobe from the doorway.

I shook my head. Like it or not, I really did need to get to work. I couldn't stay to sort through this latest outrage. I glanced at Seamus.

"Seamus, I'm swamped at work. Do you think you could take care of this for me before the kids see it?"

Seamus gave me a hard glare.

"Oh, don't worry, Michael Sean Aloysius. I'll be cleaning up all the latest shenanigans going on around here before the kids see them," Seamus said.

I winced at his emphasis on the word. I guess I was getting a fresh, un-asked-for heaping of Catholic guilt to go this morning.

"And I'll tell you another thing, jail time or no jail time, I'll blast the first Flaherty I see back to Hell's Kitchen and straight down to Hell, where they belong," he called as I walked down the steps. "This old codger will make Clint Eastwood from Gran Torino seem like Santa Claus."

"You already do," I whispered as I hurried for the safety of my police car.