Mick don’t care. Mick don’t walk. Mick don’t talk. Rig a jig, let the bull chime run. Whiskey for my Johnny. Mick came in riding on a donkey. Sick of salt and sea water.
Pulling into port for one last time. He’d come to kill and now was
(more) the time. He’d spent the past five years hunting down the man who killed his son. That man was on the other side of the oak door of this old port tavern. He drew out that old thrusting dirk from under his coat. Step, step, stop. Breath, breath, breathe.
‘Turn around’ was the growl that left Mick’s mouth.(less)
