Taming the Alien by Ken Bruen

Author:Ken Bruen [Bruen, Ken]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-1-4532-8900-6
Publisher: MysteriousPress.com/Open Road
Published: 2012-10-30T00:42:00+00:00

Trying to recapture the great moments of the past.

PAT HAD PREPARED BREAKFAST as if Man United were expected.

Two plates on the table with:

sausages (2)

eggs (2)

tomatoes (2.5)

fried bread (1)

black pudding (1)

The plates were ample enough for a labour party manifesto.

Brant said, ‘Holy shit!’

Pat was already tucking in. ‘Get that inside you, man, soak up the booze.’

Odd thing was, Brant was hungry. He sat down, lifted a fork and indicated the black pudding. ‘What kind of accident is that?’

‘Would you prefer white?’

‘White what ... eh?’

‘It’s pudding, the Pope loves it.’

Brant pushed it aside, speared a sausage and said, ‘Which tells me what exactly? I mean, the Pope ... is that a recommendation or a warning?’

Pat laughed, had a wedge of fried bread, said, ‘The Pope’s a grand maneen.’

‘A what?’

‘Man-een. In Ireland we put ‘een’ onto names to make them smaller. By diminishing, we make them accessible. It can be affectionate or mocking, sometimes both.’

Brant found the sausage was good, said, ‘This sausage is good ... or rather, sausageen.’

‘Now you have it. Pour us a drop of tea like a good man.’

They demolished the food and sat back belching. Brant said, ‘Lemme get my cigarettes.’

‘Don’t stir ... try an Irish lad.’

He shoved across a green packet with ‘MAJOR’ in white letters on the front. Brant had to ask. ‘Not connected to the bould John I suppose?’

It took a moment to register, then ‘Be-god no, these have balls.’

Pat produced a worn Zippo lighter and fired them up. Brant drew deep and near asphyxiated. ‘What the fuck?’

‘Mighty, eh?’

‘Jesus, now I know what they make that pudding from.’

Pat excused himself, saying, ‘Gum a less school.’ At least that’s how it sounded to Brant. It means simply, ‘Excuse me’.

Like that.

He came back with the inevitable tea pot and a large white sweater. ‘This ganzy is for you. It’s an Aran jumper and if you treat it right, it will outlive yer boss.’

Brant never, like never got presents; thus he was confused, embarrassed and delighted. ‘That’s ... Jesus ... I mean ... it’s so generous.’

‘Tis.’

After Brant had showered, he donned a pair of faded Levis and then the Aran. He loved it, the fit was like poetry. He said, ‘I’ll never take it off.’ Put on a pair of tested Reeboks and he was Action Man.

Pat eyed him carefully, then said, ‘Be-god, you’re like a Yank.’

‘Is that good?’

‘Mostly! Mind you, it can also mean, “Give us a tenner”.’

Pat volunteered to show him how to find the Gardai. Before leaving, he asked, ‘Who’s Mayor Mayor?’

Brant was stunned. ‘What?’

‘Mayor Mayor. You were roaring the name like a banshee last night.’

Brant sat down. ‘Gimme one of those coffin nails.’ He lit it and felt the tremor in his hand. ‘A time back, I had a dog named Mayor Mayor ... after a character by Ed McBain.’

Pat didn’t have a clue as to who McBain was, but he was Irish and learnt from the cradle not to stop a story with minor quibbles, so said nowt.

Brant was into it, back there, his eyes holding the nine yard stare.

Download

Copyright Disclaimer:
This site does not store any files on its server. We only index and link to content provided by other sites. Please contact the content providers to delete copyright contents if any and email us, we'll remove relevant links or contents immediately.