Tommy got a banger, kid.
Eight filly minions, man-size and two full lines of pork, please.
The squinty-eyed butcher cut the steaks, and went next door for the pork. He had a special look for Tommy, open faced, complimentary but still, hedged and less than wholehearted and if you looked closely, you could see bitterness. The rest just got the sneer and the curled down, narrow lips, the Faganesque glare.
They looked at each other, mumbling Saturday morning friends-ish but still, strangers in a queue.
Filet mignon, loin of pork? All in the papers, twenty millions, twenty bloody millions in a sea of billions. But he’s caught! Dodgy small-town thick-as-shit solicitor.
Friends and clients, a small party, Sean said he’d do the beef and the pork.
Yeah Tommy, the squint narrowed, that’s seventy euro please.
There was always a crowd there up to mid-day, the great, the good, the brutal and licentious all got their meat here. The big fat smiling happy butcher statue outside welcomed everyone. All meats, all cuts, economy offal and high-end sirloin, loin, knuckle, packet and tripe.
Clients Tommy, after the match I suppose?
Yes, the match, framing the day – say a prayer for Paulie’s knee though.
Yes Mrs Quinn, a pound of mince and four pork chops.
Mike, lamb steak and kidneys, the usual? I think he has it away – I’ll just check.
Mike’s kid poked him, Done? Are we done now?
Seven and a half euro and nine to you, Mrs Quinn.
What happened Dad?