One night
at a pub, in a place where the pub is constructed, Tadhg O'MacMick is inside the pub.
"One of your finest peanut!", he shouted to the barman.
The barman, being 20 cm from Tadhg O'MacMick, ignores him.
Shortly after, he brings a bowl of peanuts to him. The "he" is Tadhg O'MacMick himself. Thus, he did, what we call, a self-service.
"Oi, where did you get those peanuts?", barked the barman in front of Tadhg O'MacMick's outward manifestation.
(Tadhg O'MacMick) "Feck! You spat on my peanuts! I took them."
(Barman) "You brought your own bowl?".
(Tadhg O'MacMick) "What bowl?"
The saliva theatre is quite dull. Other customers did not pay attention fortunately.
Across the street,
a kebab stand is not there. But, when we turn our head a bit to the left, we can see a pole. Then, after a short pelvic gyration, with a cautious tilt — no more than five degrees, we behold a man. In front of us. He walked toward us while we were gazing the perimeter.
The man is tall, as tall as the door. Too, the door is tall.
The man walks toward Tadhg O'MacMick.
"Ello, gimme a rub-a-dub's worth, will ya? I'm parched!", said the man to Tadhg O'MacMick.
"Am I wearin' an apron, ya eejit? Ask the man with the spout, not me!", spat Tadhg O'MacMick.
"By the saints, me face got baptised! You behind the counter to serve or to spit, you daft pillock?", muttered the man, with a handkerchief carefully wipes his face — obeying his hand's movement.
"👀 Ah now, pardon me! Temporarily ordained, I was. Y'see, himself's face-first on the tiles, bless his soul", said Tadhg O'MacMick.
The man reaches his pocket.
"My wallet!", he shouted.
(Tadhg O'MacMick) "Ah now, I've a wallet too, y'know. What makes yours the chosen one, like?"
"Oi! It's crafted from baboon's backside, sparkles like a firework, an' it's carryin' enough paper to start me own soddin' bank! HAHAHAHAHA", the man said.
The man starts running, showing his wallet as if it's an Olympic torch, laughing like a hyena on vodka.
The dialogues, they sounded like they came from this place and that place.
The barman hears a ring on his telly.
Telly means television.
Tellyphone? We will find out.
Despite the fact it came from the telly, the barman answers the tellyphone.
"Ello?", he said without picking up anything. He just lied on the floor and said it.
He nods murmuring: "Don't fink anyone's been sniffin' round after me."
The running-laughing man suddenly trips.
A thud sound continued by a shout, "BLIMEY!"
People gather around him. Someone whispers, "Is he dead?" Another screams, "ALL IS WELL?"
They are awaiting for, at least, one answer, impatiently.
Instead of not going to the window, they go to the window, drawing the window, and breaking the wall. A peculiar group of people it is.
The barman stands up and cleans his apron. He folds it neatly.
(Barman) 👀‼️
"Oi! Would someone kindly explain what, in the sacred name o' Guinness, 'appened to me bleedin' wall?", shouted the barman in disbelief.
(People) (Shrugging off. 🤷 Whistling. 🐦 Pretending nothing happened. 👨🧔♂️)
A Russian girl shakes her head.
She is at a mall. In Russia, Moscow, at a particular address.
"My wallet!",
shouted the man on the floor.
People mutter. "Who took his wallet?", a customer whispered.
"Oi! You bladdy wailin' over a folded bit o' baboon skin? ME BLADDY WALL! 🤬", barked the barman with his veins located properly at their respective places.
Tadhg O'MacMick,
behind the barman, is thinking. 🤔
The man
stands up... and, once more, shows his wallet to everyone.
People act as they are relieved.
The barman walks
toward the location which was once a place where a window was steadily plastered, which is now a humble gap on the wall. He examines the maddening peculiarity.
The window, curiously, now lays upon the floor — quite unattached from its original setting. Fragments of brick and plaster encircle it like mourners at a wake. The wall, once sturdy and unremarkable, has quite surrendered to ruin. Of the window's former place in the wall, there remains only a jagged void, cold and accusing.
(Barman) 👀🤬🤦🤦
"Who bloomin' did this?", the barman whispered.
A soft murmur passes among the patrons, voices lower in that peculiar tone reserved for scandal. They speak in hushed fragments, glancing furtively at one another, speculating — as people often do in such circumstances — on who might have been responsible for the sudden and quite dramatic collapse of the wall.
"Oi, who's the daft git what knocked the wall down, then?", said one of the customers.
(Barman) 👀🤦
A shadow shifted.
Low. Slow. Like oil creeping across stone.
The barman pauses, his eyes narrowing. The rubble still lay untouched, the window jagged and broken, yet... something else has entered. Something older. Stranger.
From the smoke-dim haze, a figure emerged.
He wears a coat that looks older than the pub itself. His gait is deliberate, slow not with caution, but certainty. His face, when it tilts into the light, reveals drooping eyes, mossy brows, and looks like a case of strabismus.
"Is this open, mate?" the man asked, his brogue thick, unmistakably Australian.
The barman blinks.
A customer whispers, "Who's that?"
(Barman) 👀🤦
The figure steps closer, revealing the pattern etched into his boots — a carved shape of two crayons. Symbols of ancient colouring instrument, used once by monks — in their spare times, now by a man who looks like a man.
"Brother Aidan. The violet. I'm feelin' expressive."
— Brother Jacob, 1023.
He is...
Dundun MacDun
Scottish by birth, a male it seems.
"You okay, mate?", Dundun asked the barman.
(Barman) "👀🤦 No I ain't bleedin' 'okay'! Me wall's been totalled by a pack o' vodka-soaked hooligans! INNIT!? 😤"
(Dundun) "👀 I'll be frank."
"I'll be Tadhg, I will!", shouted Tadhg O'MacMick, waving his hand in excitement.
A Russian girl shakes her head.
In front of them.
Everyone is startled. 👀👀👀👀👀👀👀‼️‼️‼️
The Russian girl looks at the ceiling, joins the tips of her fingers together, and incantates softly:
"Одна доска, две доски, три плунжера. Пошёл." 🪄💥
She dissapears into thin air.
The man with the wallet,
looking at his driver license from his wallet, screams, "My name is tarnished!"
"My name is Tadhg!",
said Tadhg O'MacMick from behind the counter, waving his hand, while enjoying the peanuts from not a bowl.
"Dundun, mates", said Dundun MacDun, tidying his coat, smiling to everyone.
"Bloody 'ell, we doin' introductions now, are we?", the barman exasperatedly muttered.
The barman stands with his hands on his hips — not other people's.
For we understand none aside from being a sequence of events.
Everyone lives happily ever after. The dragon sleeps, the bunny runs, the wall is still like that.
🤦🤷
Solved.
Because there is no case to begin with, except... the storytelling.
Kaer Morhen
I name this genre as Events Derangedly Stitched Together.
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