Operation Fluid.

Brendan sighed loudly. This was anything but fluid. More like stuck. Nothing was moving. Even the grass on the side of the road wasn't fluttering. This was Drumcondra on the Saturday before Christmas. This was the last trip into town to get the last few items.

Obviously, there were others thinking along the same lines. Plenty of others. The smell of car fumes and frustration filled the chilly December air. The only thing that moved faster than those on the pavement were bicycles and motorbikes. Brendan scratched at a jelly stain on his jeans.

Everything moved in slow motion today. Queues were everywhere, everyone seemed to be in a rush somewhere and children cried and laughed in equal measure. You'd know it was Christmas week - the sense of panic among parents was almost palpable.

Temperatures in cars were rising around him, even though the weather outside was heading in the opposite direction. The news report on the radio stated that accidents were happening all over the city, due to black ice. The Garda name for good traffic flow during the Christmas period was now becoming laughable.

Brendan was effectively parked for the past twenty minutes. He shut off the engine. He chewed on his nails. He flicked through the messages on his phone. He called home, but his wife couldn't talk because the kids had her busy.

Nothing was moving on the outside lane. The bus lane on his left wasn't much better. Brendan wiped the condensation from his car windows. He liked people watching - it was a past time that he sometimes enjoyed. He was a patient man. He used to try and attach a name to the characters he watched.

The first car he looked at with interest was on his right and slightly forward of his location. It held a solitary man. He stared forward with a sad face. He looked drained. He wore a beige raincoat and tan driving gloves.  Brendan guessed this man's name might be something like Timothy.

Moving on from Timothy, he looked directly in front. A mother and her two kids - one boy about nine or ten and a younger girl of about three. She sat in a car seat while he played games on a phone or something. The Mum, who Brendan christened Martha, was on her phone constantly. She seemed like she was arguing with someone. Her window was cracked open a touch and Brendan heard the words "turkey for fourteen." She was going to be busy this holiday season.

He looked left. He had a double decker bus parked within five feet of his passenger door. The bus was packed and toxic fumes plumed from it's exhaust. Their windows were well fogged up, unless one passenger wiped it, to see out. A young lady peered out of her wiped circle on the bottom deck.

She was pretty, and probably was called something like Elaine. She wore a warm red buttoned jacket with shoulder length brown curly hair. Her head bounced along to the music pumping in her ears. She was entertained, despite the humdrum of the situation. She looked happy.

Looking upstairs, a small window open let in some cold air. Brendan could see multiple passengers. A young man in an ill fitting suit, sat with his head against the glass. He was sound asleep. Drool oozed from his mouth and it seemed to creep out the lady with the black bobbled hat beside him.

Moving further along the window toward the front of the bus, he spotted a young couple cleaning each others teeth. With their pierced tongues. Like a washing machine on rinse. They seemed oblivious to everyone around them. They were no more than fifteen or sixteen years old, with their entire lives ahead of them.

At the front of the bus, Brendan could barely make out the side of a man's face. He had thick black hair and was chatting constantly on his phone. He wore too much gel in his hair and some of it stuck to the glass when his hair rubbed off it. He laughed and gesticulated a lot with his hands. Was he Italian, perhaps? A name like Roberto. A scream interrupted his daydream.

Then a horn blared behind him. The traffic was inching forward. Then another blast of multiple horns, these far more impatient. The man on his right wasn't moving. The impatient git behind Timothy was waving his hands like a madman.

Except Timothy wasn't moving. His head slumped forward against the steering wheel, sending out a constant blast of noise.

Brendan inched his car forward and then pulled his handbrake up. Racing out of his car he reached Timothy's driver door in seconds. Yanking open the door, Timothy's right arm slumped out into the cold air. Brendan checked for a pulse while other motorists blared their horns, not realising what was going on.

Brendan pulled his mobile from his pants pocket and dialled 999. No emergency service was going to reach this man quickly. Beaumont Hospital was nearby, as was the Mater Hospital. His pulse was weak but thready. He had a chance. But he needed immediate medical attention.

Like a knight in shining armour, a single light came moving toward him. Brendan risked his own life standing in front of the moving object. The high visibility jacket gave away the incoming Garda. A motorbike could get through this madness.

Stopping the Garda, he ran through a quick plan. Taking Timothy on the back of the bike wasn't an option. The Garda had to clear a path. Brendan parked his own car on the path, off the road.

Moving Timothy with the assistance of other motorists, who now had stopped bleating their horns into the backseat, was difficult. But they managed it. And then they turned back toward the city, away from the flow of stranded cars and buses.

Timothy received his Christmas miracle - from a stranger called Brendan and because of an Operation that was anything but Fluid.       

Clean Strike.

Amy woke when she heard the unmistakable sound of the clacking. The same clacking sound of their voice box and their tongue snapping against each other. They made this sound when eagerly searching for food. Their sticky tongues slithered in and out of their mouths sniffing the air. They had to move.
.
Stealthily moving out of her bunk, she grasped their weapons. Tapping Thomas on the shoulder and holding her cupped hand over his mouth, she held her index finger over her own mouth. Any sound above a grunt might give their location away, cowering in the boughs of the large oak tree. It slowly began to rain a light mist, as thunder clouds gathered.

Their weapons were their potential lifelines. They were the food. No weapon equalled no chance.

The visitors were becoming ever more frequent to the woods. They were ugly frightening beings, but not quite the greatest warriors.

The humans were becoming more troublesome as they fought back with more ferocity than the visitors first expected. Loud music from twenty odd years ago, strangely filled the void of cramped spaces and tight, tired limbs.

But with the visitors running out of food in the cities, they had to branch out into the countryside. They were becoming desperate.

Amy poked her head out slowly from the canopy. She saw four of them. Their brown scaly skin left a lingering smell of musk and sweat in the air. Sickly sweet. It reminded her of when she had her first encounter with them, six days ago. Amy placed a wet rag over her mouth to prevent her from gagging.

They were communicating through their clacking and demonstrative waving of gestures - it seemed like they were arguing amongst each other. Thomas checked the charge on his stun gun - it was working, but wouldn't be wholly effective. It might knock one of them off their feet, but wouldn't be enough to kill them.

The visitors arrived six days ago when everyone thought that meteor shower that the entire earth suffered was just a freak of nature. No one realised that inside the meteors were spacecraft. Under cover of darkness and with the benefit of surprise, they appeared firing their weapons. They killed thousands in the first hour. Within twenty four hours, they had taken over the major cities with their superior firepower. They then polluted the water supply, forcing the human race into the countryside.

Then the Queens, like bees, of their race began sproulting. They gave birth to an entire race of soldiers, far superior in height and build to the human race. They also had weaponry way beyond what Amy and Thomas now possessed. Their weapon was little more than a pea shooter against a tank cannon.

But the visitors didn't factor in battling the indomitable human spirit. The ability to morph and change as circumstances arose. To learn from mistakes and develop their experience. Amy heard that the smaller towns were becoming harder for the visitors to dominate as groups of resistance used guerrilla tactics to survive. She had also heard that the resistance were winning battles with the visitors own weapons. Adapt and survive.

Her senses twitched as one of the four stopped dead in his tracks, directly under the tree they were now encamped in. He issued orders for the other three to fan out. He sensed something. Amy turned to Thomas and indicated to be quiet. Thunder roared overhead like barrels being rolled on concrete. About the right time to hide any noise they made.

The leader of the quartet was following his gut though. He knew there were humans here, but none of them thought of looking up. Amy and Thomas stayed hunched and folded over, with ample foliage covering them. The rain started to get heavier, coming down in sheets of warm tropical gush.

As the rain became heavier, so did the deluge coming through their camouflage. She pulled back on the slide of her Glock 45 handgun, knowing that their hideaway would become exposed. Bullets slowed them down, but didn't kill them immediately. She didn't think she had enough bullets to kill all four. She only had one more full clip - twenty-one bullets in total.

Thomas only had a stun gun, batons, one spear and a bow and arrows. She had her gun, baseball bat and a lightweight graphite snooker cue with the tip filed down to make a deadly spear. That was the last resort. The final stand.

The visitor's weapons were like an elongated devil's spiked fork, that fired an electrical charge. Amy had seen it's devastation at work. They seemed to use their weapons with various charges. On humans, they seemed to use a lower charge to bring people down and knock them unconscious. One benefit of these weapons was that they seemed to take forever to recharge.

They would then cart you away and eat you at their pleasure. If immediately hungry enough, they would feed on any human with the same savagery as a starving pack of lions.

As more leaves and branches fell from their tree rather than others, the leader eventually looked up.

He saw the underside of Thomas' white trainer. Amy knew now it was time to fight or flight.

One of the visitors fired his weapon. It shattered the bough ten feet above them, to absolute smithereens.

Another shot soon fired high and wide into the clouds. A shaft of lightening smashed to the earth, about one hundred metres away from the visitors location to the north. It scared them enough to reconsider their current mission. The leader shouted an order to continue firing at the twosome in the tree.

Amy took the opportunity to fire back. Thomas primed his bow and first few arrows. Amy nodded, indicating her assertion to fire. They both stuck their heads out and both fired in a staccato grouping.

One bullet seared through the shoulder of one of the visitors. An arrow lodged in the foot of another. A screech filled the air as another lightening bolt lit up the evening. The thunderstorm neared their location.

The visitors shot back with two quickfire rounds of charge. It shone a hue of light blue as it passed them into the sky. Their aim was being affected by the noise and distraction all around them. They weren't used to this weather.

Within minutes, Amy was out of bullets and Thomas out of arrows as the foes traded blows. Amy considered swinging and leaping from tree to tree, but the nearest bough wasn't within easy reach.

The visitors didn't seem to eager to climb the tree either. They wanted to shoot Amy and Thomas down. Another huge bolt flashed within ten metres of the visitors.

Amy prepared to use her last stand. She raised the graphite cue aloft and threw it directly at the leader.

The next bolt jolted through the flying implement and directed the ten thousand volt charge of electricity through the graphite stick.

It sliced right through the leader's skin, bone, sinew and cartilage. The other three glanced quickly at each other as Thomas raised his sharpened spear.
In the dark of the evening, it looked like another graphite cue.

They dropped their weapons and fled back toward the city. Amy and Thomas cheered loudly against the cacophony of the maelstrom above, happy that they had struck a blow for mankind.

Star Strength.

"Kenny - are you ready?"

"No Frankie. I ain't. I'm pissing my goddamned pants."

"Seriously dude? Are you okay? Have you pissed yourself?"

"No Frank I haven't! I just can't - can't do this. I'm just, eh, not ready. I can't do it."

"Of course you can! Stop talking through your asshole Kenny. Drop something or take a gulp of that bottle and get out there. You'll be fine once you hear the roar."

"Shut the fuck up Frankie! This is serious! I haven't done this for such a long time. I'm afraid I'll suck eggs and disappoint them all."

"You won't suck - you are Kenny Cheevers. You are a legend. Over twenty million records sold. You are gold goddammit!"

"But I haven't got out there in so, so long. And my voice isn't what it was!"

"It's just like getting back up on a horse. And your voice sounds better now anyhow - far more refined."

"You think?"

"Of course so! You can do this Ken. You're ready. You've prepped for this. There's twelve thousand people out there are waiting for you. Punters wanting you to grace their lives again. This is not twenty three years ago when you played to ten people in your first gig."

"I remember that night like it was yesterday."

"It was a good night. That cage saved you from being beer bottled in the face."

"Yeah that dude with the ugly yellow teeth really didn't like me, did he?"

"No he certainly didn't!"

"I remember that long drive on that windy, greasy road. It was lashing rain that night with leaves falling everywhere."

"Ricky played bass and Chuck wouldn't shut up! That guy was always yapping his mouth off! You enjoyed that night, didn't you?"

"It's still one of my best life memories Frank."

"Seriously?"

"The fact you're still around too means a great deal. You do know that?"

"I know dude."

"I have my lucky pleck."

"Then you've got everything. Ready?"

"I suppose I am."

"Let's go so. The band are waiting for your pep talk in the wings."

"And Frank?"

"Yeah?"

"Sorry for the eh, y'know, freak out."

"Kinda half expected it. Go rock the joint."

"I do remember driving out of there at hi-speed though. Without being paid our money though!"

"We've come some way, eh?"

"That we have dude. Thanks for being there for me Frank - through everything - I mean it."

"Enough emotion - save it for the fans and the show."

The Speech.

“Feck that Matty – we’re flying by on the seat of our pants. The lads are chugging along in second gear. It’s not good enough.”

“I know Tommo. What do we do? Get Frankie on?”

“Nah. It’s a bit early for him yet.”

“What are ya gonna say to them?”

“I’m not sure I know. I’m gonna have to think quickly though. We’re gonna struggle into that wind.”

“Are ya coming in so?”

“Gimme a minute. Go around and see whose carrying knocks from that first half. See what the mood is like – give me thumbs up or down when I come in.”

“Will do boss.”

Tom Moran stood outside against the flaking paint of the blue dressing room door, assessing his options. The flecks of dried paint stuck to his black and red trimmed Bainisteoir t-shirt. A flash of silver caught his eye and mind.

Taking in a deep breath, he cracked open the door. The mood was light and he heard laughter before he glanced upon a face in the room. He closed the door slowly and stood with his back to it. Leaning against it prevented anyone leaving until he was ready.

Tom rubbed his stubbly chin and looked down at the stark grey concrete of the dressing room. Clumps of grass and clay intermittently littered the entire floor. The smell of Deep Heat, Icy Hot, sweat and urine mixed up a cocktail of smells that only exists in dressing rooms.

Tom caught Matt’s eye. Matt shook his head, indicating that the attitude wasn’t right. Usually Tom took his place in the centre of the room, before giving guidance on how best to approach the second half.

This time was different. He was well pissed off.

A hush soon enveloped the crowded space. The players knew Tom wasn’t happy. He waited for complete silence. Then he walked very slowly to the bathroom and went for a piss. The room stayed quiet, awaiting his words.

“I’m glad I have your attention lads. Please take a good look around ye.”

Tom let that hang in the air as twenty five men looked around at each other, unsure of what was coming next.

“I’ve known most of ye for almost five years now. We started off in Division 2 at under-13 level. We were seen as a joke to some people, but I soon knew I had a special bunch of young men. We took a while to get to winning ways, but we got there eventually. Alan Fitz there came onboard as a trainer three years ago and got ye into great shape – all your fitness work over the past few years has been with thanks to him. Ye are easily the fittest team in the county.”

A few heads looked in Alan’s direction, thanking him with imperceptible glances and thankful eyes. Alan got embarrassed, blushing at the mere mention of his name. He had no idea Tom was going to thank him.

“And now I want ye to thank Davie Murph over there for getting many of ye through knocks, niggles and injuries over the past few years. Did any of ye know that Murph looks after ye for nothing?”

It was Dave’s turn to look down at the hard concrete in embarrassment.

“Matty there has been in this club longer than many of ye have been on this planet. He’s the guy who gets your gear right, makes sure we have the right equipment and does most of the organizing prior to games. Without him lads, not much would happen. Ye’d all be sitting at home on yer arses on a Sunday morning if it wasn’t for people like him.”

Tom let that one sink in, pacing around the room. He glanced in the eyes of all twenty two players. He said nothing.

The dressing room was eerily quiet apart from the odd scraping of boot or stud on concrete. A referee’s whistle blew. Three or four players got to their feet, expecting to be called back out to the pitch.

“Sit down te fuck! I’m not finished!”

The normally calm Tom Moran had lost his cool. His audience were captivated and a touch fearful.

“I’m sorry for shouting lads. Sorry.”

Tom seemed completely contrite and apologetic. He held his hand up.

“Okay here’s what I want you to do. Keep the ball in hand second half. Keep any ball into the forwards low. If I see any ball flying high into the sky, I’ll whip ye off the pitch so quick yer fucking head will spin! We are fecking well fitter than these boyos, so let’s get them chasing US lads! That’ll tire the fuck outta them and then we can pick them off. That wind has to be respected lads, so use it to our advantage.”

The referee’s whistle blew twice again, more impatient this time. The opposition took to the pitch. The noise of twenty odd pairs of stud on concrete outside their dressing room made quite a din.

“Everyone get up and stand shoulder to shoulder with the man next to ya. Ignore the noise out there! And now I want ya to glance around and take in every player in this room. I hate to be a killjoy lads, but this could be the last time ye all play together. Ye have to appreciate that next year many of ye will be in college around the country or emigrating to Australia or the USA. That’s life lads! It waits around for no man. Ye have gone to school with each other and played together for nearly five years. This could be your last hurrah.”

The whistle blew again.

“Fuck that ref; he’s just an impatient arsehole.”

Tom’s joke broke the tension.

“One last thing lads – I want to show you all something I was given almost twenty years ago in my minor county final. It’s a silver, losing medal. We were like ye, right now, two points up at half time and should have been out of sight. But we weren’t and we lost by one in the end.”

Tom threw the medal on the floor in between all players and coaches. It made a cheap clunky sound against the quiet of the room.

“I do not want any of ye to regret anything lads. Leave everything you have out on that pitch. Win every 50/50 tackle! Put in that extra effort for your team mate!”

Tom now pointed his yellow stained index finger at the group, in an emotional plea.

“And PLEASE, please don’t walk out of here later, with something like that lump of shite that’s on the floor! I don’t want that torment for ye all! I don’t want ye to regret this next thirty five minutes for the rest of yer lives! ‘Cos I know I have.”

A determined look started to appear on the crowd of faces. Steeled eyes and broad shoulders flexed.

“I want the best fer all ye lads. Ye deserve to be champions, so go leave all the hard work of the past years out on that sod of turf. That’s how ye can repay my unwavering faith in ye.”

Gum shields were placed back in the mouths. Deep inhales and exhales were flying in and out of many of the players chests. Necks were rolled and arms extended.

“So go out there and tear into them. Show them who the boss on the pitch is for the next half hour of your life. Play like you need the ball to survive and to breathe.”

Legs and knees were jostling up and down. The clamp of boots on the hard surface built the level of noise. Words of mumbled internal psyching were growing.

“And remember lads – we have NO finish line. We have NO obstacles in our way. We WILL win this game. Your determination and talent WILL shine through. You WILL be Champions!”

The players exited the dressing room with a cacophony of noise, roars, clapping and staunch support from their management team. The last two to leave the room were Matt and Tom.

“Where the fuck did that type of emotion come from Tommo? I’ve never seen you like that.”

“We all have our secrets Matt.”

“Who did you play for twenty years ago? Was it us?”

“Nope.”

“So was that a runners-up medal from a county final?”

“Nope Matty. But you saw how it jazzed them up. I’m fecking well glad none of them looked too intently at it.”

“What medal was it?”

“My daughter’s second place medal from last Saturday in an under eights’ egg and spoon race. I’d forgotten I was wearing these same pant bottoms then and put it away in here for safekeeping. She obviously forgot about it too. It was effective in there though!"

"Well bloody hell Tom! You're some fecker!"

Welcome Onboard Monsieur.

 “You are very welcome onboard Mr. Clay – are you travelling alone with us today?”

“Yes, eh, unfortunately I am.”

“Juan- right here, will show you to your room.”

“That would be great – thank you.”

“You’re very welcome – enjoy your stay.”

“I do hope I will.”

The walk to Jim Clay’s room was made in silence. Jim wasn’t much for talking – he was tired from the travel of the day. A series of head gestures and hand signs bridged the language gap that existed between a forty-one year old bachelor from Ireland - and a twenty something year old slight Asian man.

Broken English, serial head bowing and white-gloved pointing demonstrated to Jim where everything was in the balcony ocean view room. The cruise liner was the fleets’ finest and his cabin was on the top floor. Jim thought this would do nicely.

The young Asian man moved anxiously as Jim pawed him a ten euro note to thank him for his troubles. He hesitated before exiting the room, as if wanting to tell him something more.

“Are you okay? Juan, isn’t it?”

“Yes, Meester Clay.”

“What is it?”                                                     

“I hope you have very good stay.”

Juan made eye contact for the first time – holding it longer than he should normally.

“Em, okay. Thanks - I’ll try.”

Jim unpacked his scant belongings and lay on the bed. This was supposed to be a trip for two.

He had a forty minute nap and woke to find a note under his door. It tabled the events for that night. Tonight was going to be the “Gala Night under the Stars.”

He was going to dress up anyway for the night. He had brought his tuxedo and dress shoes. Before the note appeared he was going to order a bottle of champagne to his room. Then order some lobster and steak. And then some fine French wine. That would be the final act.

But here he had an opportunity to command the stage once more in front of a large audience. Twenty one years of artistic drama had taught him how to hold the attention of the gathered masses. One final bow.

Jim took his time, taking the two hours to preen himself to the highest degree. His tuxedo was somewhat creased though – this would not do for a performance of such gravitas. Calling room service, Juan appeared back at his door with an iron and a smile. Jim realized he had opened the door in his underwear, and smiled back at the young man.

Almost one hour later, Jim stepped out of his room with a big grin on his face and colour in his cheeks. Maybe there was life in him after all.

Dinner with wine for all the guests at his table soon lead to sparkling conversation and witty banter. Other tables looked on in envy as they all moved onto the show with champagne in hand. Jim had slipped a twenty to Juan to reserve the finest seats in the theatre for him and the four others at his table.

After the show, Jim insisted they visit the casino for further entertainment. Jim was having such a good time that he had forgotten his earlier, dark plans. At 1am, his table friends soon began to filter away to their cabins for the night. But Jim was still full of vigour, and took up a stool at the roulette table. Two other guests sat entranced by the wheel amid the prospect of riches.

Jim watched for a few minutes, gazing into how the ball was falling. Dropping one hundred euro on the table, he took the chip colour of pink – his favourite.

Four spins of the wheel later, Jim had over three hundred chips and counting. His Mum’s age before she died, was seventy six. Numbers 7, 6 and 13 came up. Was his luck changing?

As Jim pondered his possible sudden change of fortune, a tall French man sat on a stool two away from him. Negativity oozed from his every pore. His shoulders sagged, his face grey. He was about the same age as Jim, yet his skin bore the hard edge of someone far older than he. He looked like a man that worked hard his entire life.

Jim’s sudden wealth evaporated rapidly. So did everyone else’s. Only Jim and this sullen Frenchman remained. Jim became intrigued.

“It is a bad night for you?”

“You will have to excuse me – my English is, not good. C’est la vie.”

“I understand. My life has been ‘merde’ over the past while too.”

“That is the word. La vie merde.”

“What has you so ‘merdey’?”

“I was supposed to eh, cruise with mon dame. She die two month ago from eh, canceur.”

“Oh I’m so sorry. Je suis eh, so sorry.”

“Thank you.”

“I was supposed to take this trip with my mother. Mon mere. She died too.”

“Oh! Je suis desole aussi! Le canceur aussi?”

“No! Jaysus no – twas her electric chair. Kinda funny when you think about it really.”

“Her chair? Chaise? Pourquoi ca?”

“She was bleedin’ electrocuted. She was going upstairs to bed in her little chairlift and the bloody water-tank burst right down on top of her through de attic. She fried right there and then until I returned home from work the following morning. Twas a terrible sight to see. She was still smouldering at eight in de morning.”

“I don’t understand – fry? She blood?”

“Sorry I went off on a tangent there, didn’t I? She was electrocuted – no blood. Brown bread in seconds’ dough, according to the doctor that called it.”

“She die quickly then?”

“Yeah – Gawd bless her. We were very close. I was her only son.”

“Electrocution is good way to go. Is quick. Canceur is no.”

“I can only imagine. Can I get you a drink?”

Jim and the Frenchman stopped playing roulette and took seats at the bar. Jim listened while the Frenchman relayed his story in a mixture of French and English. He talked of how his wife walked, talked and loved life. His family was of no help to him and her family was devastated at the loss. He didn’t know what to do. They swapped stories of their lives and work, Jim telling him of his mundane job working in Information Technology Systems. The Frenchman was as Jim expected - a manual labourer.

At 4am, they said their goodbyes and went to their own cabins. They both had rooms on the thirteenth floor. Jim didn’t even know his name. As he entered his room, he saw rose petals from the entry.

The following morning, Jim didn’t feel like breakfast. He had drunk too much, but Juan had fixed him a Thai hangover cure that worked wonders. Reading the material from the ship, he got up to date on what was happening onboard today.

The crazy feelings didn’t even cross his mind for four days. Jim was actually enjoying himself and thinking about the future. Meeting the Frenchman and hearing his life’s story made him feel better about him and feel sorry for him. They never told each other their names.

Two days before the end of the seven night cruise, Jim strangely read the back of his room keycard and onboard ID. The weather outside was raining and not conducive to tanning oneself in the lashing Mediterranean rain.  A weird but legal statement caught his eye.

“By accepting this card, you agree to be responsible for all purchases charged on your account.”

Jim checked his account. He had been living hard over five nights to the tune of E775. He told Juan, who asked him if he had the cash or credit to cover it. He did but he didn’t really want to pay it.

“There may be a way to get around it. On computer.”

“I hadn’t thought of that.”        

 Forty minutes later, Jim’s bill was nearly clean. He hacked the cruise-liners’ website and left himself a bill of just E75. Juan was mightily impressed.

“Do my wages!!!”

Juan soon had four hundred more euros in his wage slip for the current month. He wanted more but Jim said that anything exorbitant would draw attention. Juan disagreed, but finally relented.

“If only you could stay one more week!”

“I know Juan. But everything good comes to an end.”

That night was the last of the Gala nights. Jim adorned his tuxedo once again and posed for photographs with the Captain of the Ship. He bumped into the Frenchman again in the casino after midnight. The casino was mad busy. The Frenchman looked even more depressed than usual. Jim caught his eye at the full roulette table. The Frenchman smiled back and got up from his prized stool at the wheel.

They sat and talked again. He was seriously depressed. He had one more week on the boat and just wanted it all to end. He wanted what he couldn’t have.

A thought crossed Jim’s mind.

They were of similar age, similar build. Their complexion was a little different though. Their gait was worlds apart. Their hairstyles were completely different.

Jim didn’t see why not. Hair and make-up could fix those problems.

He would have another week with Juan. On someone else’s account.

He just had to play this right.

The Champion of Chocolate.

It had been a long and winding road for Andrew. Fifteen years of family problems, untrustworthy partners, health issues, fire and the world financial collapse all played their part in his life. Now he was on the verge of achieving their ultimate dream and his life's ambition.

He left school following his father's path of accounting. He didn't finish first year, hating every minute of it. He wanted to make his parents proud though, and went back to college. That didn't last either, until his father pulled strings for him in the bank. He got a decent job in Dublin with a major bank but still dreamt through the long days of one thing - chocolate.

His job ended simply. His direct supervisor called Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory a stupid film. He clattered him across the chin with a left hook. Within minutes and without being told, Andrew started packing up his personal items from his desk. He left not knowing if he had been fired or not.

One thing he had learned from the bank was the importance of savings. At the tender age of 22, he told his friends about his love of food and his obsession with chocolate.Andrew wanted to go to culinary college and feed his nurturing desire in how to cook properly. He finished top of his class after three years and became a sous-chef at a top Dublin five-star restaurant.

Having his creative side stifled by the chef, Andrew soon became disillusioned. He wasted two and a half years until they employed a new pastry chef by the name of Tomasina. She was German and shared the same desire and love for chocolate. They hit it off immediately. Andrew soon found himself in the company of Tomasina, learning new ways and the complexities of chocolate.

One night, in the company of friends and too much wine, Andrew blurted out that he wanted to rule the world of chocolate. Everyone in the room laughed heartily except one man - Jon. Jon was the son of a wealthy financier and was eager to make his own mark in the world of business. Speaking further, they both had an idea to open a chocolate cafe. Tomasina and Andrew would run the chocolate end of operations and Jon would locate premises and staff.

Andrew put his entire life savings into the business. It bore fruit. They opened three cafes in one year, all making and raking in cash. Jon had ambitious plans, yet Andrew didn't quite agree. Then Tomasina fell pregnant. She had to take it easy near the end of her term. Jon franchised the business and the company grew exponentially. Using their exquisite brands of chocolate, the coffee and related products were flying off the shelves.

Andrew and Tomasina wanted to stick to the core value of selling the chocolate. Jon didn't agree. He wanted to brand the chocolate cafes and push the chocolate through this avenue. It became legal and very messy, very quickly.Andrew managed to hold onto the chocolate recipes and his one and only store. Jon soon coped without them both by employing another chocolatier.

Animosity soon developed between the two. A suspicious fire closed the shop for three months. The insurance money to refurbish was held back as an investigation was conducted against Andrew. His health detiorated as a result and he slowly drifted into depression. Tomasina soon moved out, taking with her their son, Philip.

Andrew celebrated his thirtieth birthday on his own, in a damp one bedroomed apartment in the city centre. He had never felt so alone. He contemplated his own demise. But then over a cup of coffee he was offered a complimentary piece of chocolate. He didn't like what he tasted and knew what he could change. He saw the way back.

He threw himself back into work, studying the old French and Belgian ways of taking the cocoa beans, harnessing, mixing and making chocolate. Travelling between the chocolate schools dotted throughout Europe, he refound his love. Sending Tomasina an over sized, ambitious and impressive chocolate present, he wrote a simple note.

"I'm back. Without you, Philip and chocolate in my life - I have nothing."

Andrew returned to Dublin, opening a small chocolate shop in a former old bookstore on Grafton Street. He held onto the the semblance of the exterior and placed a simple sign on the front. He wanted the chocolate to speak for itself. The front sign simply said "APT Chocolate."

It didn't take much time for the chocolate buzz. Word of mouth spread the popularity of his APT mixes. The variety and complexity of his four core chocolates sold themselves. He soon had investors and financiers wanting to back his every move. He turned every single one of them down.

Chocolatiers began to flock to him. Word flowed back to Tomasina that Andrew was doing very well. They had spent seven months apart, barely speaking a word. The queue outside the door of the small shop was immense.

The shop sign melted her heart. APT stood for Andrew, Philip and Tomasina.

She walked past the long line and walked directly up to him. Seeing the happiness in his eyes, a single tear brushed her cheek. Without saying anything, she kissed him deeply, forgetting the past months.

Now that his life was back on track, they combined ideas and workings with chocolate. New themes launched their business into the stratosphere. They won award after award, propelling them into the spotlight. But Andrew still craved a simpler but huge accomplishment. To be a Chocolate Master.

Andrew had worked hard for this moment. Five years on their own, perfecting and exacting their own particular brands of chocolate. And now he was on the verge of becoming the king of chocolate.

He was in the final three of the Masters of Chocolate. The World Championships of Chocolate.

The 2011 Champion of Chocolate took to the stage with the golden envelope in hand. He announced the three finalists representing Mexico, Japan and Ireland. Andrew was proud. Tomasina gazed on with Philip, teary eyed.

The announcer stated Japan in third place. He had done well coming second, he thought to himself. Andrew really didn't expect to win.

But then his life got better. Ireland had a new Master. A Champion of Chocolate.

Morning Chat at the 101 Bus Stop.


"Ah howya Elsie - how are ya dis morning?"

"Ah jaysus howya Betty. Let me sit down furst. Ah, that's better. This feckin bag is killin me bleedin back."

"Wha have ya in it? Bloody rocks or wha?"

"Ya know - the usual shite I need every day. Ya know how Bertie gets when ya don't have all the shite with ya every day."

"He's a bleedin fecker, he is. D'ya sleep ok?"

"Nah - the feckin dog was barkin half de night."

"And wha was he bleedin barkin at?"

"I haven't a bloody clue - probably de wall or something stewpid."

"We used to have a dag dat used te bark at the wind. Now he was s stewpid arsewipe!"

"Now dat's a feckin lie."

"No! Honestly he did!"

"Ah yer pullin me leg Betty. No living ting could be dat bad."

"Well de dag was in our family, and ya know how tick some of me clan are."

"Dat's very true Betty. No sign of the creepy crawlie fecker heer dis morning?"

"No sign at all. I tink he has a nice face dough."

"D'ya tink so? It looks mouldie te me. Like a slapped arse if ya ask me."

"Ah c'mon Elsie - he's not dat bad. He's just a quiet sole. He wouldn't hurt a little fly."

"Still makes me skin crawl."

"Wha ya got fer yer lunch?"

"I made it last night. Didn't want dat fecker of mine robbin them dis morning."

"I got a ham and cheese one and a corned beef one. Wha ya got?"

"Egg and mayo and cheese."

"Euggh! Mayo! Dat's not yer usual sambo combo. I'm not swapping with ya fer defo now."

"Aragowaan! Ya know I lurve corned beef!"

"Der's mayonaisse on dem. No feckin way."

"Suit yerself. I just thought. Ah well, I knew ya like egg, dat's all."

"Ah fer feck's sake, go on den. Feckin guilt trip at eight in de morning."

"Yer a star Elsie Brennan. Yer savin me from the shite they serve at lunchtime in my place."

"It's hardly dat bad, is it?"

"I wouldn't feed it to a pig. It's slop. Proper slop."

"Really?"

"Really really. It looks de colour of a Chernobyl shite."

"Ah stop Betty. I can taste me porridge all over again."

"Value fer money der den - yer gettin te eat it twice!"

"Ha ha! Yer gas Betty. I tink I see me bus coming heer."

"And I tink I see mine behind it too. Look who's coming running fer yer bus now!"

"Ah jaysus lay off him Elsie. He's alright."

"Seeya later so missus. And no snoggin yer boyfriend at de back of de bus - ya don't want him moving yer fillings dis early in de morning!"

"Feck off you! Seeya later!"

Tom hits table.

The taking of this drug does NOT have side effects. Anyone who tells you different is a bloody liar - with eleventeen fingers and three thumbs. I smell methane - and it's not a fart, before you get smart.

I've not dropped the kids off at the pool today. My back feels like a small Thai woman needs to run up and down it for a while. But my middle arm does hurt from milking the dog on the miniature animal farm.

I was riding the multi-coloured horse when Tom entered the room wearing the pink long sleeved loincloth. I thought it looked beautiful on him, accentuating his eyes. It matched his scooter. Not the red one, obviously.

Jimmy shouted something mad like "I wanted the fridge with the ice-cube dispenser dickhead!"

That man is crazy. He eats worms from his farm. Imagine breeding those fuckers. You can cut their heads off and they still live.

Tom twirled across the floor. Like a ballerina. On skates. In Maryland. Except he weighed 220 pounds. I noticed how fat his toes were. Cheesy sausages.

He clobbered into four tables, knocking over three games of chess that never seem to end.

Especially the rich hairdressing kind. Those fuckers don't know when to quit. Hair dryer in hand, I am God. Look at my shop and it's witty name. Fuck off bro - your name is a tank with leather trousers on. So 1980's. And it's muffler has an auntie who sells her pepper to the nearest farmer with black and green cows.

He stumbles toward me with those blue/green/yellow/turquoise eyes. He yells, wanting everyone to hear. He hits the table in frustration.

"Why the fuck did you sell my grey bin? You bastard! And what about my left boob? I loved that more than my right. Sorry rightie."

"I did it to save your soul dude. Now the left orange felange with the green teapot can fly again."

Argument over. Tom is happy. I talk sense.

Now when does that wardrobe that opens the alternate universe open again?

Strike Power.

Tension was brewing. Raised voices, clenched fists started the morning, and it was nothing to do with the heat of the factory. The hum of large laundry washers dulling the morning mist outside, intensified the mood.

The little issue had become the straw breaking the camels’ back. The shop floor workers were divided. This minor issue had potential repercussions. Production coming to a halt was in no one’s interest.

Action had to be taken.

The workers felt they had been backed into a corner. Management had taken decisive action before and weren’t afraid to make the uncomfortable choices. The ordinary worker felt this was a looming push factor. Their way of saying “Your opinion doesn’t matter.”

The shop stewards huddled together and debated the inaction by their direct boss, Mr. Clancy.

The general consensus was that Clancy was going too far. His attitude to it was bordering on unwitting. Why were they being forced to work under these draconian rules? How could they come to work with this percolating over them, every single day?

It had been infusing for some time now, January to be exact.

It all began with the closure of the big plant in Cork. It had forced some of the workers to relocate to the capital, Dublin, but they just wanted to remain employed. Accents, habits and working ways caused friction as both sets of workers mingled. County loyalties were not the only thing dividing the shop floor.

The Cork plant also brought their own shop steward, who in turn became the general workers representative. Tim Power had to quickly endear himself to the capital workers, who eyed him with suspicion.

Speaking on everyone’s behalf would be a step in the right direction. Avoiding the fermenting problem would show he was a man to be trusted. Getting them a fair deal.

Tim put his mug down and fixed his tie. He couldn’t bear to go in without looking professional. He wanted to show Clancy he meant business. Whispered voices sneaked out from between the machines as Tim strode purposefully across the cemented shop floor. This was no storm in a teacup.

Tim climbed the seven steps to the mezzanine office of JJ Clancy. He knocked before entering. He was beckoned in.

“Well Timmy! How are things? What can I do you for?”

“Eh, this is, a signed petition from all the workers on the shop floor.”

“About what?”

“About, what constitutes part of our, breaks.”

“What are ya on about? Breaks haven’t changed.”

“I’m gonna have to read this to you to make it all, like official and stuff. We, the workers of TC would like to enter into negotiations vis-à-vis what is part of our break. We feel that we are at a crossroads here. We just want what’s best for all.”

“I’m sorry, Timmy, but what are ya talking about?”

“We’re prepared to serve strike action notice over this, such is the emotion Mr Clancy. This has been steeping for some time now.”

“You’ve lost me and annoyed me in a very short space of time Timmy.”

“You know full well what affects the workers the most!”

“Don’t raise your voice to me Tim Power. I’ll feckin’ strike the shit round the back of your head if you don’t get to the bloody point!”

“In this day and age, we would equal opportunity – this is 1981 after all.”

“What are ya rattling on about Power?”

“We believe it is our equal right to have more than one than one choice.”

“Choice of what?”

“Considering that almost half the workforce are from down south, we just want like, fairness and equality for all.”

“Timmy! What do you want?”

“The choice of either Lyon’s or Barry’s tea. The effect of drinking Lyon’s tea is having a detrimental affect on the southerners. Morale just isn’t there because of it. Lyon’s is a capital tea. The southerners want their Barry’s tea!”

“How about I make a trip to the supermarket at lunchtime and I’ll buy two different boxes of tea. Does that solve your problem?”

“Eh, yeah. Just make sure it’s not the loose tea. They hate that.”

“Grand stuff. Is there something else ya want?”

“Do you mind if I shout and roar for another few seconds at you? Just so it looks like I’m telling you what’s what. For morale, like.”

“Get the feck out of me office Power.”

I bequeath of thee punk.

The sun glistened off the black tarmac and heat visibly rose from the one hundred degree heat. Bill stepped out of his vehicle and adjusted his Aviator sunglasses to exclude the strong midday Miami sun.

Tiny little geckos along the sidewalk avoided his stride, as he neared the door of the convenience store.
Bill wiped his sweaty brow as the whoosh of frigid cold air greeted his entrance. The electronic bell above the automatic door rang.

Pausing to adapting to different lighting, he glanced around checking for the soft drink fridges. Situated at the back of the store, Bill walked purposefully toward them, eager for something cold and refreshing.

He was so concerned about quenching his thirst that he did not see or spot the unusual circumstances surrounding him. Glazed expressions and confused stares wondered if he had a death wish.

Even the gunman seemed perplexed at Bill's audacity.

Everyone stood motionless, wondering what might happen next.

The cashier behind the long wooden counter shook, with a mixture of fear and anger. Three customers - two women and one very overweight man - who had stood in line to be served, now nervously waited for what came next.

The man held a six pack of beer. They all stood with wobbly dispositions - half clutching items they wished to purchase and with their arms halfway in the air.

The gunman waved his gun to and fro reasserting his command of the situation. Everyone shivered at his sudden anxiety, fearing his next jerky movement might be their last moment in this life.

They all weren't sure what Bill was doing. What was taking him so long?

Sixty seconds passed. Bill didn't reappear.

The young stringy gunman got more nervous, wondering where Bill had wandered off to.

Sweat began to trickle down the back of the cashier - even though she was directly beneath the duct of the air conditioner.  The chubby man couldn't keep control of the items he held in his arms - glistening beads of water from the beer made one of the bottles slip to the floor and smash open.

The gunman raced toward him and stuck his Glock under the ample chins of the poor man. He whispered to him not to drop anything further or he would shoot him up through his brain.

Panicking, the gunman ordered the cashier to continue emptying the till. He couldn't wait for the weird guy at the fridges to reappear. Where was he anyway?

The bustle of the broken bottle gave Bill enough time and distraction that hid his advance.

Bill was undercover at the moment. He had also a particular penchant for English literature. That's where he was going right before he walked into the store. To his second appreciation class of John Milton, the poet.

Moving deftly along the aisles he skipped toward the shaky drug riddled weaving gunman. The beer skittering to the floor gave him time to creep right behind him as he rose his own gun.

"I bequeath of you punk - resign your firearm to the floor before I send your soul toward hell and the fiery depths."