SPEAKER_02 0:16

The Playboy and the Vampire. In the days that followed the St. Stephen's Green Kissing incident, Scotus put the whole experience down to a bad pint of beer. The pressures of the new job were surely a factor, too, as was the scintillating sex in a strange castle somewhere west of the Broad River Shannon. The mind had been driven mad, the blood had been risen. The poor old brain was addled, bothered, noither than whatever you're having yourself. He suffered a terrible hallucination. He sought things that simply did not exist. He saw things Bram Stoker did not even see in the farthest depths of his depraved imagination. God knows he might have seen even worse had he not refused the serious drugs offered to him by the busker at the top of Grafton Street. At heart he was just a simple bogman, a country lad, more used to digging spuds or counting cattle. The only solution now was to come back down to Earth, to come down out of orbit quickly, and there was no better earth, no more solid ground than in his native county Ruscommon. A day in the bog footing turf, or a day out in the fields saving the hay, was just what the doctor ordered. He ignored a message from the Minister of Foreign Affairs, despite the fact that Jack Mulligan stated it was extremely urgent. With no further ado, he was on his way to Conland. His election strategist and best friend Seamus Harrington had also phoned to say it would be a good idea to get his arse down to his home constituency quick. Breed de Burka, the popular young counselor, was gunning for his seat. She was seen every feck and where according to Seamus. She was at christenings kissing babies, at funerals praying for the dead, and at football matches roaring on both teams. The mention of Breed de Burka filled Scotus with dread. His first memories of her were from his early days as an awkward country boy cycling to school. She, just a little girl, terrorized him every day by throwing stones at him, and on several occasions managing to knock him off his bicycle. He'd be black and blue from her. She bruised his soul too by saying he had a funny-shaped nose and a big red face. She had the power of gathering a whole army of little girls and boys, a children's mob, around her, and they'd all joined a chorus of insults directed at SCOTUS. They said she kept a book with the names of both those in her inner circle and of those, the weaker members of society she wished to destroy because it was fun. At night he'd cry in bed with no one to talk to. His father was a distant man, his mother, well he never had a mother. Breed De Burke, just a little girl, a very pretty little girl, was the curse of his life back then. An absolute holy fucking terror. She then seemingly went from stone thrower and name-caller to man-teaser overnight. She was the most stunning girl Scud has ever seen in a dance hall. The cute face, the pristine figure, the perfect press. To this day he did not know what possessed him to ask her to dance. When she was 18 and he was in his early twenties. She refused. She refused with an expressionless look. But in that look was every name she'd ever flung at him and every stone she'd ever thrown. Seamus Harrington rented some space for Scotus to meet his constituents in the local hotel in Boyle. They put an ad on Shannon Side Radio welcoming voters from Roscommon to come and meet their local minister and to air any grievances they might have. They specifically asked the people of Roscommon not to be put off by his title. There was more to Scotus O'Neill than being Minister of Supernatural Affairs. He was here to talk roads, jobs for the West, and grants for the poor farmers of Connacht. Despite the fact that the rain was bucketing from the heavens on the day in question, a fair few turned out, mostly old timers with all manner of complaints. The first was an old woman from French Park, who complained that nothing was being done about a streaker, who was wreaking havoc in the Tulsk, Elfinan's Druxtown area. The guards she said were a shower of useless westerls who couldn't catch a cold. The streaker, she said, was like something that stepped right out of a foreign fill em. Not only had he the people of the countryside plagued, but the cattle and sheep too. He was running naked through the fields morning, noon and night. She said he was seen streaking at sunrise and again when the moon came out. Scotus was nearly in stitches laughing. He only succeeded in getting shot of her when he promised to have a firm word in the local sergeant's ear, but he did think to himself that when the streaker was eventually captured, the Strokes Town Streaker would make quite the headline for the tabloid newspapers. Lots of farmers followed, big frames of men, mighty men, hardy men, men who burst a gut every day and their bodies now buggered, their long stringy backs gone, creaks in the crevices of their bones here gone grey and here gone astray, the poor old bastards limped in the door, bucked and bucocked, twisted and contorted like broken old clothes hangers. The weather was greatly undermined. If the rain didn't let up, if that hoorin' rain, that dirty scuttering rain and that so and so sun didn't come out soon, if some growth didn't appear on the horizon, the poor farmers were finished. They were ficked, they were famished, they were frigged altogether. Every field they moaned was now a turlock, a lake that appeared overnight with no signs of disappearing back into the ground again. Dirty rotten water everywhere. What was the minister going to do for the poor farmers? Well they couldn't control the weather he tried to tell them. But he tried to lobby Europe for money. Oh no butts, minister, they growled and grunted. It was the poor farmers that elected him, and what was he going to do now? No, not tomorrow minister. Breed the Burka was not afraid to put the webbies on and step out into the muck. Some woman they said, the finest, a lovely bird, a grand arson or two. She wasn't afraid to raise awareness of the plight of the poor farmers. If the minister didn't get his own arse into gear awful quick, turfed out in his head he would be, and that nice girlin Breed the Burka put in his place. More come in and talked about crime, petrified in their homes at night. Every type of gangster you could name was now crossing the shannon and terrorizing the country people in their homes. Gurriers, gougers, gum beans, gawks, queerhawks, gobdogs, gibba hawns, goose a horns, and literally every type of gob shite under the sun. The sun that never come out in the west was now seen travelling through the ancient stone wall roads of Connacht, up to no good whatsoever. What had happened to the young woman who lived near Loch Quay? She'd gone missing. Was there any sign of her? Was it knackers, gangers, jippos or Latvians? Did the minister know what happened? Not only did the minister not know what happened, he had not heard of any young woman who had gone missing. He assured them that crime was completely on his radar, and he'd make it his mission to rid the west of Ireland of the Gobshites from the east. It was getting dark when he had his last constituent of the day. A sad case. He was a young man by the name of John McDermott, with lines of worry etched all over his face. He was carrying two young kids with faces all red from crying. The poor things looked starved and perished with the cold. Scottus on seeing the scrawny kids offered them these sandwiches. They hesitated like nervous animals at first, but after a little coaxing, the children began to devour the food on offer, and the man began to talk. During the Boon years and just before the whole country went belly up, the young man had purchased a home for his wife and two kids in a new development by the banks of the Broad River Shannon. It was a development by the name of Hollywood on Shannon. It was now a ghost estate. They were now the only family living there, and the rest of the houses were empty, with not a potential buyer in sight. Scottis imagined the man was now underwater. He could no longer afford his mortgage, and the house was unsellable. He owed more money on the house than the house was working, so it was his plight and the plight of many in the country. But it was an entirely different story he told. A different story altogether. I am at my wit's end, said the man. I have one foot in the grave and one foot in the mental home with all this carry on. What carry-on would that be? asked Gotus. Drain from listening to his whinging constituents all day. The other house it doesn't stop. Morning, noon, and night. The noisiest racket you ever heard. Music and roaring and shouting and smashing all around them. The starving kids suddenly stopped eating. As their father described the nuisance created in the other houses. They withdrew into themselves and appeared frozen in terror. Some bad people have moved into them. Have you alerted the guards? This is really their domain. John McDermott laughed for the first time. The guards. The guards just laughed laughed in my face and told me to catch myself on. My wife, too, you see, was driven out of her mind by all this. She got up and left one fine day. And home nor ho have I heard from her again. Sure the guards think it was running away from me, she was that it is touched in the head that I am. Sure Dulani, they think I am. Just some good for nothing local kids? Immigrants? Drug addicts? I don't know who they are or what they are. I can't see them. But they're there. And they're terrorizing me and my two little girls. Look at them, Mr. Rowland. Look at my wee girlings. We're out of our wits' end. They've driven us pure dementia. You must help. Please help us. It was very late in the night when Scoutus finally left the hotel and walked towards his car apart on Main Street live. He heard some footsteps rushing behind him and turned to see the Minister of Foreign Affairs, Jack Monligan. Jack was stumbling towards him. He looked a right duck out of water. A jack hean let loose on the countryside. Scotus surmised by his lack of coordination that Jack had been on an all-day pub crawl of every little village and town in County Ruscommon. The light from the street lamp illuminated Jack's face. And a sorry looking sight it was. While he was still Ireland's most handsome fifty-year-old, he was pale and sickly too. Drink, women and horses thought it's good as it was all coming home to roost now. It's Rodika, said Jack, struggling for breath. The sweat pouring from his brow like a faulty beer still. She has not left. She's at wild in the country. She came to my place last night in Dublin. Wouldn't keep her hands off me. The girl was on fire. You know the lark. But she's changed. We were in the middle of her rigorous bout of love making. And then she opened her jaw. Sweet suffering Jesus if she didn't. Jack pointed to his neck. Well, he made a virtue of the many love bites he secured in all corners of the globe as Minister of Foreign Affairs. The two prickly incisions received last night were a different matter altogether.

SPEAKER_01 13:40

I think she's a shag and vampire's goddess.

SPEAKER_02 13:43

You should have seen the teeth on her. She sank them into me, and blood was shooting from all angles like Jimmy Keevenney taking freeze. When I looked into her eyes, I saw a vision of hell. I'm bright. My days are numbered in this world's goddess. I'm now cursed to roam the countryside no better than a stray dog, cocking his leg here, cocking his leg there. It's one sorry end for this politician. Now you're just talking pure dual allies, that's goddess. Remembering the words John McDermott had used earlier. You've caught some kind of virus, and I'm taking you to Sligo General Hospital. Jack Mulligan was frauding at them out and raving like a lunatic when they reached Sligo Hospital. A pretty young nurse injected him with something, knocked him out for the count, and that put a merciful stop to his madness. It was the early hours of the morning when Scotus finally got home to his house in Ruscommon. His body absolutely wrecked, and his mind somewhat troubled. Their big old two-story house on the boiled of French Park Road was damp and cold. He tried to get the fire going again, but the turf was poor this year, and all he succeeded in doing was smoking up the place. His father had not yet arrived home from the poke, despite the ungodly hour. He'd be cursing and blinding and coughing and choking when he was greeted with a house full of smoke. Scotus did what he normally did when he was feeling down in the dumps. He made himself a nice potato sandwich. There was some lovely fresh white-slice pan from a bakery and mail, some kerigold butter, and a bag of cheese and onion tattoos. He was just about to savor his first bite when there was a knock on the door. Who is knocking at this hour? It must have been the wind, for there was no one outside. Scottis, scratching his head, went back to the table and lifted his tarot sandwich again. He licked his lips and breathed in deeply. He realized he had not had a bite to eat all day. He had given a few sandwiches he had to those two starving kids. The poor wretched thing. The magic of the tarot sandwich, the heavenly essence was in the soft bread, chewed with the crispy tato beneath, unified by the rich Irish water. That first bite, that first munch, that soft crunch was simply a gift from the gods. It revived him, exhilarated his soul, sent blasts of goodness darting through every vein in his body, with a second bite atop it. Scotaus, sweet Scotia, she cooed. He caught the shock of his life to see her standing there, clad in a delicate night dress, her full breast furiously battling with the wisps of a linen. It then began to slip from her voluptuousness as she glided slowly towards him. He stammered. She playfully rolled her hand along his chest, and between her and the tailor sandwich, he thought he'd fly through the roof, shoot up into the sky and ascend to heaven. You've been a very bad boy to leave a poor Romanian girl all alone in Ireland. I thought you'd come back to Butcherest, he said, words still struggling from his whimpering mouth. But she'd no time for talking. She quickly grabbed his head, clawed his hair, and kissed him hungrily. The old sacred heart picture that hung for years on the kitchen wall never saw the like of this before. Scotus even thought that he saw a mischievous grin from the corner of his eye and the portrait of JFK. I love you, she said. I love you too, he said, now beginning to relax and enjoy their tongue wrestling. The lackluster turf fire continued to lose its own battle with the downdraft and spewed volumes of smoke all around the room, and with Dormitra sucking every last bit of oxygen from his lungs, carbonaceous matter shooting up his nostrils, he fell to the floor, gasping for breath, with the remaining and beauty still on top of him. She held him down and kissed him everywhere, ripping his shirt and clawing his gut with her nails. Her whole body at times felt like cool, soft white bread, controlling every last ounce of his being, at other times rich Irish butter melting all over him, and he ate a crisp, smothered inside her. But he could barely see her now, other than the long dark hair that dangled down on his face and the cool warmth of her breath that suffused his chest. That bad damn turf fire was playing hell, however. A blast of wind from a growing storm outside shot under the doorway and cleared some smoke away, just long enough to reveal Dramitra. And the two fierce fangs looming over him. Sacred heart of Jesus! he cried, Mother of God, get help me! A confused struggle followed as Scota's coughing and spluttering somehow shoved her off, and thunderstruck with terror, threw fists and kicks at the smoke in a desperate bid for survival. A frenzy of hissing, snarling, and spitting followed. There was scratching, snapping, and clawing too, as if a gang of stray cats had hopped in the window. Snatters and saliva, phlegm and spits went flying through the ticked yellow, obscure ear. Every now and then her incisors would make an appearance too. Scotus, now sweating like a pig, clenched his fist and threw a punch and cleanly connected with something. Such was the force of his rasp that the skin was knocked off his knuckles. That would give her something to think about. He'd never hit a woman. But Demetra, sad to say, was no longer a woman. Poor Scoris was unlucky in love yet again. With any look, she'd now be shuffling around in the smoke, looking to pick her two fangs off the floor. All went quiet for a while before a volley of venom was finally unleashed.

SPEAKER_01 20:40

Oh, aren't you the right little Christie man trying to kill your poor old dad? Aren't you the right fucking playboy of the Western world?

SPEAKER_02 20:50

The door now wide open and swinging and creaking in the angry storm began to clear the smoke. Scotus saw his father struggling up on the floor, good and steamed from a long night of drinking, holding his bruised jaw. The Mitra was nowhere to be seen, nowhere to be seen at all. She'd left without a trace, and all that remained were the scratches she'd left on his face. His father, his face contorted from the blows, clenched his fist and gave Scottis a fierce look. I've a good mind to knock your head off and send it into the middle of next week, you dirty little Scot. I thought there was an intruder, said Scotus feebly. Ah, you taught. You taught. You know what happened to Tot. He pissed on his trousers and taught he was sweating. Scotus was sweaty. He sank to the floor and held his head in his hands, mumbling. Oh my god. What have I done? His father, too drunk to comprehend, stared for a few moments before. Before tumbling off to bed, Scotus remained on the kitchen floor trembling until the dawn. It was only then that he finally got to finish his Tato sandwich.