A St. Patrick’s Day story

West Egg

The boys name was McKenzie. He was a handsome boy, who carried himself with a regal kind of swagger, a swagger usually reserved for rock stars on large treatments of pharmaceuticals and whores on small treatments of sexless streaks, one rarely found in a boy so humble and mannered as this boy was. One dark and dreary day, the boy was walking along a small road that he had walked along many a dark and dreary day. On his way to see a cat about a dog, he was in no particular hurry, just walking along, kicking a stone, humming a tune and thinking about girls, football and all the famous people who hailed from Northern Ireland and wondering, with no small amount of annoyance, why the rest of the civilized world didn`t recocnize Northern Ireland as the hub of talent that it clearly was. So lost in thought and…

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