Name’s Sean. Sean Walsh. I’m a real Irish bastard, and an alright cop. Officer Walsh when I’m on the job and Green to my sunuvabitch partner, Don.
I’ve been with the force for 15 years and never cared for having a career. I like working the streets and chasing the scum of the earth down the filthy alleyways of our city. To serve and protect is the name of the game. Yet sometimes it feels more like search and destroy. Not married, never been. Been close once. Didn’t work out. She didn’t like having a booze hound for a spouse and I couldn’t blame her. Hell, I would prefer rainbows and unicorn juice. But the things we come to see now and then haunt ya, always wake you up in the dawn, sweating but not remembering which part of this fucking job came back this time.
After duty, I go to the bar. Down on Elm Street. And I have a couple of beers. And when I’m all warmed up it’s time for some of the good stuff. Golden-brown, burning-your-throat fucking whiskey. Irish or not, I don’t care. But the drinking is also to give me that special resting, calm relaxedness. So I can talk to Darlene. Darlene. Middle-aged, middle-weight, middle-height Darlene with the golden-brown locks. Like the drink. Just right. And always welcome.
She takes care of us fellas who hang around there, always being interested and sweet, laughing at our jokes but always keeping a certain reservation - no one knows if she has a boyfriend or if we are all just not her type.
A month ago, as she was pouring me another Tallamore’s, she started speaking to me in her soft but firm voice and it took me a while to understand what she was saying. The alcohol was already hot in my blood. “Sean, do you know where Don is, I’d like to speak to him about something.” “Do ya need help with something, I’m at the station tomorrow. You can just drop by and we’ll take care of it.” “Nah, I need to talk to Don. It’s kinda personal.” And her lips tightened as she started polishing a new glass. What had that douchebag been up to now, I thought.
Later on Don showed up, sat down with Larry from vice and ordered a drink, stretching his back. Darlene placed his beer in front to him and whispered something in his ear. He looked at her, grinned and gets up real smug and slowly to follow her behind the bar into the private area. Larry and I exchanged glances and now my blood was boiling with envy and jealousy and I bent over the counter to grab the bottle and kept filling myself up. I couldn’t believe it.
About five minutes later I heard Donnie screaming from the top of his lungs in anguish, he came running out of the room, out of the bar, redfaced, barely holding up his pants and slightly bent over. “You fucking cunt!” were the last words this place was going to hear from him, and if everyone would be honest, only Larry would maybe miss him. On a sad day.
Darlene came back. Putting on lipstick with a gleeful smile and glowing eyes. And returned to serving us booze. Only I could hear her mutter under her breath: “That was for Cindy, motherfucker.” And I have kept that to myself.
We all talked among us fellas about what happened.
Had she bitten off the tip of his dick.
Had she superglued it to a condom and ripped that off.
Had she screwed his manlihood with the same force she opened a glass of mixed pickles.
Had she simply kicked him in the balls.
The possibilities were endless and were further discussed during coffee breaks at work. Or after arresting another worthless druggie down mainstreet, still panting from the run.
Donnie changed after that and became a quiet man. And always took a little step back from anything female he encountered.
'
Me - I still go to the bar at Elm street. And I know I am not her type and she probably has a boyfriend and wouldn’t choose an old Irish bastard like me. But I have learned to cherish every smile and every strand and drop of the golden-brown, hair and liquid.
‘Cause I sure as hell don’t want to be in that room behind the counter. With a tight-lipped Darlene. No, siree.
Sláinte.
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