\u2018That\u2019ll be five forty,\u2019 said the paddy behind the counter, proffering a genial smile. The chalked menu behind him listed authentic Irish fare such as southern fried chicken in four sizes, Yorkshire pudding and rib steak kebab (with CURRY SAUCE in loud capitals). Contrasting aromas emanating from the kitchen copulated in the air, producing a hybrid child that only bore resemblance to one of its progenitors, the overpowering scent of curry.<\/p>\n
\u2018I\u2019m sorry, don\u2019t understand,\u2019 said Mr. Alpha, cupping a hand over one ear. \u2018Your accent, see, can\u2019t make it out.\u2019<\/p>\n
\u2018Five forty. Five euros, forty cents.\u2019 The paddy repeated, his smile withdrawn, glancing at the queue behind Mr. Alpha.<\/p>\n
\u2018No, sorry, not getting it. Are you speaking in Garlic? Three forty? Is that it?\u2019<\/p>\n
\u2018No, no, no! I\u2019m not speaking Gaelic<\/em>.\u2019 The paddy swallowed and spoke clinically: \u2018Fi. Vuh. For. Tee.\u2019<\/p>\n \u2018Jesus and his wife Nora, you don\u2019t have to sound like that, do you think I\u2019m a fucking imbecile? Here\u2019s your bloody three forty.\u2019<\/p>\n He planted a pick-n-mix collection of coins onto the counter and left the caf\u00e9 with two steak and stout pies, not quite as steaming hot as they had appeared through the window. He handed one to Mr. Omega.<\/p>\n Mr. Omega said, \u2018You really are an asshole just waiting to happen.\u2019<\/p>\n \u2018It\u2019s the small things in life, mate,\u2019 Mr. Alpha replied, taking a bite out of the pie. It tasted fresher than he thought; perhaps they had used an oven and not a microwave after all. \u2018Anyway, we\u2019re told to keep expenses down. Doing my bit for asceticism.\u2019<\/p>\n They wandered through the cobbled streets of Temple Bar, amongst the mid-morning crowds that convulsed from shop to shop on the trendy side of town, wading through a sea of cigarette butts. Why the fuck they hadn’t yet banned smoking here was beyond him.<\/p>\n They walked past the garish yellow fa\u00e7ade of the Oliver St. John Gogarty bar, its ground level painted a glossy olive green in a concerted attempt to clash. Various European flags dressed the second floor windows, enhancing the sensory overload. Mr. Alpha waved his tie at the building and said \u2018Dear Mr. Christ, that place is the same colour as these shitty things.\u2019<\/p>\n He was depressed again. Any sort of shopping haven depressed him; it was like being drowned in consumerism, materialism. The Cloth was his home and it gave him the very minimum of what he needed, which was more than enough. A mobile hotline to Supply would have been welcome though.<\/p>\n \u2018Where are we due?\u2019 Mr. Alpha said and took more bites from the pie.<\/p>\n Mr. Omega\u2019s shades were misted up from his own pie and detached them, revealing a pair of square lenses that were also misted. \u2018Just down this road here,\u2019 he said. \u2018We\u2019re looking for a small company called Scala Caeli<\/em>. They\u2019re the local blue centre.\u2019<\/p>\n \u2018Actually are they a real company or just a shop front?\u2019 A gang of teenage girls passed them: denim skirts, loose tops, swinging handbags. One of them had swinging breasts. Mr. Alpha tensed up, beaming silent hatred towards them.<\/p>\n \u2018Groundstops nearly always provide a real service.\u2019<\/p>\n \u2018Why’s that?\u2019<\/p>\n \u2018Think. The more we hide, the more effort we piss away on hiding instead of getting out there and working towards The-God-To-Be. So these places ain’t just shell companies, and won\u2019t register on anyone\u2019s radar looking for something shit out of the ordinary. Last thing we want is real police attention or, fucking forbid, a tax inspection. They provide a service and generate legal revenue meaning we don’t have to shift cash around too far. They also make grounders self-sufficient, a cheaper option all round than yanking euros out of the nearest school budget.\u2019<\/p>\n They turned down a grimy alleyway that smelt of drunken urination and, oddly, oranges.<\/p>\n Mr. Alpha said, \u2018I never wanted to be a grounder. Sounded fucking dull, stuck in a shop all day, doing the same thing day in and day out. At least we get to go places and play police.\u2019 He carried on eating.<\/p>\n \u2018Grounders are important. They\u2019re the local eyes and ears, they\u2019re usually the ones that find us snags. Not everything is about running around town and shooting your gun off. It was obvious that you didn\u2019t have the stomach to sit still and keep your mouth shut for more than ten bloody seconds.\u2019 Mr. Omega chuckled to himself, lines creasing. \u2018That\u2019s why I picked you up. You showed the minutest promise for legwork. Shit, I should eat this.\u2019 Mr. Omega attacked the pie with a voracity that suggested indigestion was waiting for him on the horizon.<\/p>\n Mr. Alpha finished his pie and threw aside the paper bag it came in. He scratched his nose, wondering if it was good time to ask about the ex-Mr. Alpha. And why he was ex<\/em>.<\/p>\n \u2018Question?\u2019 Mr. Omega shouted through pastry.<\/p>\n Mr. Alpha didn\u2019t have the courage to mine that particular topic, not just yet. He shook his head.<\/p>\n They emerged from the alleyway into another wide road, gummed up with slow traffic, lined with warehouses. Mr. Alpha spotted the place quickly: about twenty metres to their left was a crimson warehouse, looking recently repainted and rust-free. Metallic letters with neon surround spelt out \u201cScala Caeli\u201d.<\/p>\n \u2018Jesus H,\u2019 said Mr. Alpha. \u2018It stands out a bit. This is what we call a secret operation?\u2019<\/p>\n Mr. Omega sighed. He finished his pie, scrunched up the bag and threw it towards a nearby cat which moved away at its own pace. \u2018Remember, they have to run a proper business. If you wanted to have yourself put into cryogenic suspension, would you purchase the service with a company that stored you in a rusty old shed with spiders or one that had bright, shiny, modern-looking digs?\u2019<\/p>\n \u2018It\u2019s a good point,\u2019 Mr. Alpha answered.<\/p>\n As they crossed the road, snaking through slow-moving cars, Mr. Omega said, \u2018Of course it\u2019s a damn good point. Kids today… where is the fucking respect for one\u2019s elders?\u2019<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" \u2018That\u2019ll be five forty,\u2019 said the paddy behind the counter, proffering a genial smile. The chalked menu behind him listed authentic Irish fare such as southern fried chicken in four sizes, Yorkshire pudding and rib steak kebab (with CURRY SAUCE in loud capitals). Contrasting aromas emanating from the kitchen copulated in the air, producing a […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":[],"categories":[3],"tags":[],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.hammerport.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/103"}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.hammerport.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.hammerport.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.hammerport.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.hammerport.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=103"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"https:\/\/www.hammerport.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/103\/revisions"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.hammerport.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=103"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.hammerport.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=103"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.hammerport.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=103"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}