Porto Cervo buying Heroin

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Porto Cervo buying Heroin

Porto Cervo is a lavish seaside resort on the famous Costa Smeralda region of northern Sardinia in Italy. Pristine beaches, crystal clear Turquoise waters, expensive shopping and dining options and luxury yatchs are some of its perks. Are you are a stoner looking for a weed link-up in Porto Cervo, then read our follow up guide on everything cannabis in Porto Cervo. The Italian cannabis law is a fair but technically complex one. Possesing cannabis in Italy is an illegal action whereas using cannabis is not. Sounds weird right? Visitors and travellers from abroad need to read on the laws before thinking about buying weed in Italy. The Italian drug law classes cannabis as a less dangerous substance compared to the likes of heroin or cocaine. This means if an individual is in possession of a small amount of weed they are breaking the law but it often gets treated as a misdemeanour. Sometimes a formal warning to refrain from the use or possession of cannabis is issued to first time offenders. When caught, perpetrators face punishment in the form of a prison sentence of up to six years. Medical cannabis has been legal in Italy since This came through after the Italian government recognised and acknowledge that the THC contents of cannabis offer strong therapeutic benefits to a variety of medical conditions. Since then its demand has soared and the Italian military who are the sole organization legally growing medical cannabis in Italy are running short of supply. Due to the lenient laws, cannabis is widely available in Italy. There is plenty of cannabis in Sardinia as well as on Costa Smeralda. If you know or ask the right people, you can easily get your hands on marijuana in Porto Cervo. Hook-up plugs and dealers are the norm in the area. Most of the locals working in the hospitality section are open to cannabis and can connect you to their plug if you ask. Based on our research and personal experience as well as information gathered from our local source on ground, we have listed the best locations below where you can possibly find a weed link-up in Porto Cervo or get your hands on a joint even from a fellow tourist. If you are lucky, they might even approach you if they notice you look like a stoner. If possible scan your environment for those who look like hikers, skiers and backpackers. They are likely to always have a weed connection. More chances of success if you ask amongst fellow travellers with big groups. Find a group of young travellers, mingle and socialize with them. Bring up the topic casually and read the room how they respond. From there you should know which buttons to press. Modern day dealers have been straying away from the old school link ups. The weed in Porto Cervo is of good quality and usually very expensive especially during the summer tourists season when the town is brimming with rich visitors. Hello bud buddies! If you are here and having a hard time getting some buzz then Freddy freddykushman4real gmail. A friend of mine introduced me to him and he has been my go-to plug for his excellent service and quality. Email him now and get sorted in no time. Your email address will not be published. Save my name, email, and website in this browser for the next time I comment. Post Comment. Piazzetta — This is the lively center of Porto Cervo surrounded by luxury boutiques, restaurants and cafes and also serves as the main square of the town. It is the perfect place to relax and soak up the lively atmosphere of the town. Phi Beach Club — A seaside beach bar and nightclub known for its stylish atmosphere and beautiful sunset location. A great spot for smoking weed. Porto Cervo Marina — Known for its luxury yachts, restaurants, and cafes. It is a great spot to relax and enjoy the marina ambiance. Smoke indoors or within isolated areas. One comment Hello bud buddies! Leave a Reply Cancel Reply Your email address will not be published.

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Porto Cervo buying Heroin

Work is the only thing that separates us from the dogs. Harry was ready for the racket, whatever it might be. He might even be ready for a wedding. Still, after any tragedy, he needed to reconsider his stories to figure out what might come next. He wore sweaters and autumn coloured chords and had a position in London where his staff admired and feared him as a leader who decided financial and professional fates. He drove a silver sports car and lived in a flat overlooking the Thames decorated with expensive artwork from Costa Rica, Nigeria, Sri Lanka, and Micronesia. He flew to beaches over long weekends--Porto Cervo his favourite--windsurfing with other executives, spending time over oysters and white wine to discuss business, making calls to his staff, concerned about their projects, meeting different women for dinner, dancing late and tumbling back with them to a room with a balcony facing the sea. He was happy and his close friends--people he talked to often--liked him, eager to share stories over meals at familiar bistros. On the downside, he smoked way to many cigarettes and lied too much. The description recited above was from his lips and completely false. He was actually a failed painter in New York, lonely, living in a small apartment on a bleak downtown street, neighbours brawling echoes moving through his open windows, murderers and thieves, like him, whose primary habits were drink and smoke. He was struggling to find out which was closer to his truth, or at least his predicament. Harry did, from time to time, tinker with business, as he painted from time to time, and he had thought about doing so much that the thoughts became their own stepping-stones even if he never knew toward what. So instead he shared his dreams. Everyone told him he was a dreamer. He agreed. Of course, all his business schemes and artistic romances had collided with time, obliterating any chance for one or the other. It was fine when he was young. He had gone to a good university and done well there and no one thought a few years spent trying out different careers was misguided, until the few years turned into more. He remembered his thirtieth birthday. His friends had moved into solid New York careers—banking and law of most of them. Most of them were married and a few had kids. So, he spent his thirtieth with his family. His mother was so sad at the party. She told her son that even greatness can sometimes seem very small to the rest of the world. A few days later, she and his father were killed in a horrendous car accident on their way home from a party. Harry left for London a few weeks after the accident. He needed to get away from all the people who continued to call him, to see how he was doing and if he needed anything. He needed his parents was all he ever wanted to say in response. His mother and father had met in London and fell in love there. Of course, once there, his imagination left him depressed and lonely. Harry lit her cigarette and looked up at the television in the pub. There was a cricket match on the television and its peculiarities distracted him. It was an odd game, these men in their white suits and a ball bounced against the ground before the bat. As an American, he thought he should talk to people about their sports as a way to deflect the usual complaints of American arrogance and ignorance. Really, he thought it might be a way to strike up a conversation with someone. The pubs were happy places, not like American bars were men hunted women or shared their loneliness with the barman and his thin liquors. Harry settled his gaze on Elisabeth out of courtesy. He was imagining himself playing cricket, rather than talking to someone about it. He was imagining that he discovered some preordained skills for the game during a pick-up match in Battersea Park. He saw himself standing on the pitch, watching the men in their crisp uniforms play out the match, waiting for them to take notice, one of the more athletic men, a kind looking man, would come over and ask him if he wanted to join the game, and Harry would throw off his big jacket to reveal his own crisp uniform—red, white and blue. Johnny McCormack. Ah, he was a fine looking bloke. Of course, I was horrible to him. I drank too much and smoked too much. He wanted someone prettier, I guess. We did talk about marriage but then we talked about all kinds of things. Ah, we were young so. You know how it is. Harry looked across at Elisabeth, her sandy hair and freckled skin, the way she kept her arms bent up around her face as she spoke, and he started thinking about the wedding they were going to together. She brought some milk and sausages with her to the airport, putting them in the refrigerator as Harry inspected his corporate digs. She offered to show him around London and he was grateful for the offer. She even told him there were fairies there—not leprechauns, she corrected, but fairies, good and bad, who lived in vast underground caverns, massive places that could hold all the people of Ireland, if they so needed. When she invited him to join her for a wedding, Harry grew, if not excited, at least pleased about the chance to see the home from all her stories. He asked her about it often. He asked about the bride and groom, the priest, the ceremony, what people would do, what they might talk about? He admitted he was a bit anxious to be at wedding, a joyous occasion, when he was dealing with so much misery. How could he talk to people about himself when all he could think about was how his mother and father, people he cherished, people he talked to every day of his life, were now gone, killed in an instant. He could recite every moment of the funeral, the things people said to him as they walked away from the two coffins laid down below dirty stained-glass windows. How could he go to a wedding? She pestered him still; telling him it would be fine. He agreed in the end. They flew out to Shannon and stayed with her parents in a small village outside Ennis, the largest in town in the county. Fionn opened and carefully piled the raised letter responses that arrived each day. Sarah watched television as he did. His plans fit. He was suited for the responsibility, bestowed by his father, a man who always took such work seriously. Fionn arrived at half past seven and was content to make the drive to Shannon at eight, to be with the woman he chose to be his bride. Sarah, beautiful Sarah, would take his plans to place. Weekends were erratic. Ireland, even with the roar of a booming economy deafening its impoverished history, even with a ban on smoking in the pubs— Egad, can you imagine? Fridays, he met Sarah at a pub, staying till closing and snagging cans on the way out. Saturdays, after a lie in, they shopped and took rides up to Ennis for tea, ended in one or another pub by dusk, and tucked cans in bags at closing, again, for the rest of the night. This was routine enough. Think about my pa. How am I going to explain? Sarah, you know how I feel. Fionn went to New York at nineteen. It was an old decision. A relic. An antique with sharp metal fixtures slammed into solid oak. You know you have a job with me anytime you like? New York? There is no need, Fionn. We can sort. Consider Boston? New York. And, you can sort things here. We can sort out everything. You can take over the place. Maybe someday. Now, I have to leave. Conversations with his father went this way to avoid what they both knew, not about reprisal but about what men do when action, in a small town, on the west coast of Ireland, where stories have a way of making their way in pubs crowded with men and smoke, requires departure. His father gave him a credit card and told him to use it sparingly. Fionn would have appreciated an envelope packed with bills. In New York, Fionn read newspapers, catching glimpses of what might happen, and found work in a Bronx butchery, burnt bones, blood and ammonia enough to keep him focused, and a salary paid in cash. He took a flat and spent summers and winters sweating it out, drenching or freezing on his thin mattress. Fionn lie on the street as the kid kicked him in the head, ribs, arms, legs, kicking and beating him while Fionn groaned and pulled himself away from the street. He healed, slowly, and during the nights he had black and white hallucinations, films he never shunned, recording each image for playback, and finding each time that the images had warped slightly, unable to fit previous frames, until, slowly, they became a mixture of celluloid detritus with mewling soundtracks. Styled tattoos rubbed green with time. It was enough. When he left his flat, to buy groceries, to discover he could still work in the butchery after his absence, he was stronger. He had lost a few kilos and he found he could carve the sides of beef more swiftly than before. He started to look after his flat, cleaning his sheets every few days, mopping the floor, walls, keeping everything tidy, scrubbing the sinks and the toilet every other day. He spent most evenings reading, picking up paperbacks from a used bookstore on his street. His boss gave him more responsibilities and more cash although Fionn spent little over his years there. When his father called to tell him that his mother had died in a car accident, he set the receiver down and prayed for the first time in years. His mother had prayed every day and he wished he had prayed for her more. He went to church and was pleased to find a priest who would take his confession. The priest told him it was probably time for him to go home. Fionn agreed. His father picked him up, standing there like he had never left the airport. They hugged, cried and talked about his mother while they drove to town. Fionn could hardly believe the construction—every road a menagerie of light stones and earthmovers, rows of ticky-tacky houses. His father gave him the promised job and he settled into the position. He made lists of what he could do. He tacked these lists against the clean wall in the bedroom and was pleased enough to know he was making his way toward each. Jeremiah kept talking. Each syllable was almost in reverb, moving around the conference room. Sound hitting glossy painted walls, a polished table and slick telephone monitor, bouncing against double-plane glass windows, zipping across the room, past the twelve men, their laptops and porcelain pens, returning to Jeremiah where he batted them back out. No feedback. Jeremiah honed his skills on the breadth and width of rhythm, uncommon to men, like his countrymen and their fiddles, but instead the rhythm of infinite logic, chaotic patterns, the breadth and width of mathematics and code. He could figure, without grid or processor, how long it took sound to bounce. He could draw invisible arcs. He could determine mollification. He could chart competing waves. More than these geometries, Jeremiah designed software systems to do this—of course, applied as they were for corporate customers with commercial targets. His physicality was nearly transparent. Eyebrows as thin as a line of sugar. Hair as stiff as wheat. Tall, a surprising altitude, maintained by teetering back and forth while he spoke. He came from poor beginnings and made good at Cambridge and snuffed these English poofters by going straight to America. Good man, Phillip. Jeremiah stayed on the same slide for twenty minutes. The slide had a color graph, four bullet points and a crowning statement, Jeremiah observed, that had not achieved the best impression. He looked nervously toward Phillip. The blaring obvious predicament that consumers may find themselves, when presented with the objective curiosity of household items, blaring little kitties, believe me, that can cause even the thickest man-woman to think twice. These words, of course, were not those Jeremiah let loose inside the room but he heard himself say little else. Jeremiah chopped the air around him, slapping each idea, whapping it like a hurly on the pitch. He knew the maths behind these words. He knew the technology was unique, tied to unique codes, codes he manufactured, and about which he had scientific clarity. He had to make it so. The meeting continued. Men hit keys behind hidden flip-top monitors. Jeremiah knew if he kept slamming words, a series, a string, even a sentence, would come together and impress the men, would move precisely across their reservations, their prejudice, Christ , their boredom, and, like a sliotar sailing toward a goal, a beautiful glide through empty space, his sentence would find its mark. It would bring these men to their feet, mates rushing towards him and smothering him in the glorious pitch, the victory leading everyone to clap and grin. They would take their pens and write the checks he needed. Jeremiah would hold the checks above his head as they closed their laptops and gathered around him. He just needed to slap one through the posts. Phillip, who led these twelve men, ordering them to listen, ordering them to follow his judgment, could pat Jeremiah on the back and take him to a fine London restaurant where they could drink and talk and listen to the sounds they made together. But, Phillip was no longer his investor. Jeremiah stood in this room alone. He needed to keep talking. He continued to talk but his thoughts returned home. He could not see the posts. He saw white curtains. He remembered his mother and father were there. His mates from school were there. The bone was there, jagged and white with skin peeled back. The nurse asked them to leave and pulled the curtains. Did she? Oh, stop crying. This memory, as it always did, led to images of his father, a County Solicitor and town drunk, ranting in pubs after his wife was taken from him with a sudden disease. He cried for her during subsequent meetings with shareholders, so many surprised to see such a rich man burst into unexpected tears. When he resurfaced, he looked at Jeremiah, casting him a furious look, as if Jeremiah was a homeless drug addict, someone pleading for a few pounds for his fix. Just give him a shot--a prick in the arm, a prick in the leg. We will need to be closing this meeting in the next ten minutes. I was just about to. Gentlemen, on to the next slide. Few knew the real sound of urban explosions. Movies were poor substitutes. The sequence was quicker and slower than film allowed. It always got the pace screwed-up. The boom echoed, usually, for a moment or two, like a sonar warning, followed by broken glass, falling from twisted frames, the sonar moving between other muffled sounds, people becoming aware, screaming, injured. After a few more moments, there were sirens and more muffled sounds. Billy was well gone by then. Billy zipped through the Lisboan airport. From there he flew to Paris, then Dublin, and now, to London. It was so much easier since al-Qaida. A nice Irish lad had no problems while his bearded Arab brethren, with their rancorous children and praying wives, watched customs agents rifle through bags of honeyed pastries and fresh fruit, horrified they might find something there. They would have found more on Billy. Good business, this time. God bless al-Qaida. He wore a loose Zegna button-up, Biagini cords, and thick leather cowboy boots he bought in America. He thought the boots were the best thing he owned. He was like George W. The train from Stansted was filled with businessmen talking about telecommunications and software and other bullshit. Billy sat between them, carrying more cash than they would ever see. Damon told Billy to take the cash to London and stash it for a while until he settled matters. Damon was acting as the interlocutor between Billy and Mediterranean buyers. The first time they met, Damon bragged about killing someone with a steel pipe. Unfortunately for Damon, he hit one of the red faced little boys the CIA was recruiting and sending into the field. The equivalent of sitting at a desk. Relaying messages from operations out to people like Billy. Things were getting better. Billy had gone back and forth from London and Dublin, mainly, taking crap from idiot IRA people, and once in awhile participating in expensive violence. Now he was being hired to blow shit up, on foreign soil. He was doing all right. His new role was James Bond-ish, or so Billy thought. Over-the-top, am I. Threat, frustration, anger, suspicion, revenge—none were fruitful. It is a noble profession , he joked. He walked through the cavernous customs hall in Stansted, showed the customs agent his ticket stub and walked past the baggage claims and right out into legal London. Everything breezed. He took the train, content the journey was nearly complete, checked into the Metropolitan Hotel on Park Lane, secured his bag of cash in the in-room safe and ordered shiatsu and reiki massages for the first and second nights. He took out his papers. He received it at his London flat before he went to Lisbon and was surprised it reached him when it did. He read it again. He could have been anywhere. He thought about the opportunity it presented, a sign to keep him aware. Other people paid attention to salaries and mortgages. He paid attention to people bumping him on the Underground, or his immediate surroundings when his watch stopped ticking. Ophelia recognized imaginary crowns as men described their actions as noble and dignified. There stands a mockery, she thought. Whatever happened to sorority, the stronger sibling? Did we fight for nothing, just to get out kitchens? What happened! Her thoughts screamed. She thought about her husband, the way he claimed his opinions as facts, supported merely by his authority, his position, and his ability to aggressively trade stories with his peers, all men, strutting around Dublin to the purring Celtic Tiger— they all want some pussy! Ireland deserves to be proud, what with us producing more software than any other country on earth , he claimed, as he toddled from one pub to the next. They reserve feelings for women, their wives and girlfriends who listen without interruption after sex, and who provide them comfort, stroking their poor egos, telling them, of course you are a good man, of course I love you, of course, my dear, my man, my prince. I did all that and he still reserves his bona fides for his chums, all these other men in their fine suits and fancy clubs. They are all beasts and will remain so. Sexual revolutions! What happened? In America, which her nation looked to so often, women were accorded more fundamental rights than in Ireland, and certainly more than a place like Saudi Arabia, and yet had women moved beyond similar fraternal statures in America, Ophelia wondered. Had it changed, when she saw Condoleeza Rice, an academic, palling it up with the good old boys in the Bush Administration who trampled history with their facts in order to play a football game, with high stake claims, in Afghanistan, Iraq and the rest of the world? And what of the American women who were trumpeting the call to return to their homes to raise their children? It was all cyclical bullshit, Ophelia knew, as the sixties and seventies in which she grew up receded into the cannon of episodic history. And how long before this same gendered liberalism receded in Europe where women had never moved far to begin with? So what of Rory , she thought. What of me? He said, look at America? They do the same. Look at Clinton. Look at Bush. They have their faith, misguided as it may be at times. And that was always the crucible, in her city of Dublin, a city that always made her feel defeated. She failed. He said it was his faith that gave him the strength to continue despite the errors in his way. Faith in what? On what grounds? Hypocrites, and poorly informed , she thought. And marriage? The rites bestowed in every culture between a man and women? Another mockery. She secretly figured the institution , as educated northern peoples liked to term it, was stronger between Muslims where women were given a contractual right to continued support if their men deserted them. Divorce in Ireland, a tortuously long affair, still included the fight over material rights, for houses or children, and men succeeded in these courts, with their facts, more often than did women. She wondered about places like California, with their fifty-fifty splits and custodial rights bestowed consistently to women. There too, she thought, stands a mockery. The woman gets the children, and all the troubles of raising them alone, with slip-shod checks posted to child services from the father who gains girlfriends and increased income levels while she remains mired in the exhaustion of raising children alone. And Sarah, her sister, facing a second marriage that seemed as foolhardy as the first, her little sister, searching for the prince to treat her as the queen she always believed she was. Men and women getting married. Men and women dancing and swaying. Ophelia wondered if she could determine a new way across this dichotomy. The skies above Baghdad were alight, triumphantly, at least to the technical subtlety of delivered gunpowder. They were at it again on CNN, Ophelia observed, the blasts of cars and soldiers continuing apace as these men forced their facts on a foreign people. What more proof do I need? Imagine the hollow thud of a thousand elephants trained to break stone, steel and glass. Those people never worry about the fact—they simply know. Muslims were now being pelted with the curved ironstones of star-bangled armies but their histories informed them in ways that a young America could never understand. Sarah seemed as intent on marriage as others on creaming Muslims. The religions that underpinned each were left with solemn preachers. These were not crowns. These were facts that even she would call such. Ophelia drew upon her readings of history, current and otherwise, to augment her work at the university. She was a professor now, and proud to be so. Rory puffed and snorted and said Muslims were crazed and that they would never find their way in the modern world. He had Iraq and al-Qaida as the most recent backdrops to his position. Ophelia considered herself a good-looking woman. She had grown into her looks with casual designer clothes that allowed her to forget her adolescent homeliness. Her move to Dublin, she thought, was predictable. The position at the university proved perfect. It had done her well and it perhaps provided more opportunity than she could maintain in London. She had had a small flat in Bloomsbury, spending her hours in the British Museum, her research mixing with her profession like acid on the glass above the library. It never settled. She saw too many people come and go to make London home. He cut the ribbons and soon she was sharing picnics with him in Hyde Park, him regaling her to return to teach in Dublin, where her work could uncover Irish land titles, stuffing it to the English, who had left their island in the mud. He told her it was noble work, a way to become part of the changing nation, to provide the proofs that Ireland was always ready to be a global leader, not a poor country touting long dead writers or fanciful pop showings on Eurovision. He was persuasive, and attentive, and she quickly started moving her boxes of books to his big home, with his encouragement, filling it with what she never bothered to unpack in London. She took to astrology—a kept joke none of her Dublin peers understood. She took to buying smelly cheeses from Sheridans. She took to sunbathing in Howth. She took to wearing Asian dresses in the rain—anything to add to the confusion she felt in those first few years back in Dublin. She married Rory and soon discovered that husbands were not always what they claimed to be, and, a few weeks after this added confusion, Sarah arrived with a suitcase on a late winter night, dressed in a tight blouse and a FCUK shirt revealing her pierced belly. She announced she had left Donagh and needed a place to stay, asking Ophelia if Rory would mind. Could you go down to the docks and buy some heroin from one of the nice men down there? It is for you, you little girl. What are you saying? Are you going to let me in? And with that, Ophelia turned and closed the door on her sister. Sarah found another flop and called Ophelia. I need to get you something, little girl. Ophelia thought about that night as she situated herself back on the couch in the sunroom. She took up a magazine and read a story of a financier who started a firm dedicated to buying failing manufacturing companies. The author described countless business theories. He was well primed to achieve continuous improvement , change management , material throughput , business process re-engineering , lean manufacturing , with men who grunted from hauling engine parts from plastic bins to racks that were dragged by overhead conveyors through electromagnetic rooms where millimeters of plastic flakes collected, through massive furnaces where the flakes were baked and hardened, and out again where more men pulled off the parts for immediate shipping to Detroit assembly lines. Just in time. The author described an old man who tended other furnaces that burned accumulated plastic residue from the racks. It was also an expensive process that kept room-size furnaces burning twenty-four seven. The author wrote that utilities cut fifteen percent from profit. He described explaining to the old man that they should put more racks through the furnace. He told him this would improve efficiency and cut costs. He took time to explain material throughput. The old man stared at him blankly. The author started putting racks on the line at about a foot apart, illustrating his point. The old man watched him. The author said they could do even better. The old man looked at the smiling author and started hanging rack on rack, keeping less than an inch between them. The racks started through the furnace and the flames engulfed the piled racks, burning and spewing the black plastic into cinder. They walked to the other side of the furnace and the racks came out clean as nickel and the author put on gloves to help the old man unhinge them and place them on pallets for the shuttering forklifts to bring back to the lines. The author was pleased. This was a substantive improvement, he thought, as he walked out of the factory. He turned and saw a violently ascending plume of black silt smoke against the blue Ohio sky. From the top of the bloom, alighted chunks of black plastic circulated slowly downward, landing one by one onto the cars, onto neighboring homes, onto the men in the parking lot who were slapping at the plastic melting into their shirts. The author described the lawsuits, the hearing before the city council, the investigations by the EPA, the ensuing legal bills, and the resultant closure of the factory because of a failure to meet the bank covenants that allowed them to buy the factory in the first place. He described these inevitable steps in detail, describing how he admitted his mistake before each tribunal and never blamed the old man, which, he said, he surely could. Mistakes happen, the author continued, and successful men understand it is how they respond to these that prove their character, and character is a much more potent business tool than any process dreamed-up in business schools. A lesson learned , Ophelia jokingly thought. Ophelia tossed the magazine onto the fire and cursed Richard and these men with their business and principles. They trampled over everyone, be they factory workers or devotional wives. The trapped housemates allowed Ophelia to think more clearly about Rory. Bumping men in the middle of the night. What is he like? They never had a long conversation, the type that would naturally come from such a confession, a confession of other sexual predilections. It was casual, so much so she almost forgot when it first came up. She needed to close her eyes, searching for the precise time, the pub, a time when they still took booths alone, and how he sort-of said it. Rory, who had lived long enough in Dublin to make it a habit, was openly proud of his success. He had an MBA from University of Dublin and went into business when few thought it prudent and watched his country rise from its impoverished moors and into a respected place in Europe. He founded Birchwood Property, a property investment fund he built to ten associates and three junior partners. Birchwood had done well betting on developments around the M50 where multinationals were establishing their European call centers. Rory took the proceeds and spent fruitfully on property in England and France and invested smaller capital in other local ventures. He was meandering toward rich, at times well up and at times well down, and people knew him as one of the best property speculators in Ireland. He stood over two meters and while his shoulders remained strong and broad his waist had grown thick, rounded like a keg, and his head, the size of a Gaelic football, spun around fitfully on top. He had wildly overgrown red curls and large green eyes capped by bushy eyebrows. When he walked, his arms and legs swung awkwardly from side to side, pulled back by his late middle-aged bulk. He wore tailored suits and drove a black sedan with tinted windows. Above everything else, Rory was proud of the company he kept. He knew so many people and they knew him, always willing to share stories, laughing together about the past and about the stories still half told. I went to school with his brother, a rather horrible man who went off to New York to work for Lehman. You might know him. Oh, in any case, his older brother, one of six, God bless their mother, worked for Glanbia back in the early days and he successfully embezzled over three million pounds from their coffers. I say successfully, of course, because he was never caught. I really must speak with him. Will you excuse me? Off Rory went, pushing his way across the wedge of punters, putting out his hand, smiling broadly and thumping other red faced blobs on the shoulders. Rory chaired a Dublin investor club where he ushered his peers together, prompting them to exchange crisp business cards, to exchange business plans, and to launch deal after deal. Until the market crash, these deals were plentiful and Rory was pleased to act as their chaperone. After the crash, he lamented the poor decisions made by others and bragged about his faith in property. Rory was prone to look at other investors, pioneers starting companies with hordes of eager computer science graduates, as exceptionally lucky rather than exceptionally smart. He was probably right. In this, Rory looked to a closer influence, the British, who found quick cash-based scores uncouth--not something to brag about in the financial papers or national press. Rory liked to quote American writers and politicians and was as savvy about the players on Wall Street, the deals and meals, as any first-year investment banker. He read the international business press voraciously, challenging Richard, his new American friend, in his knowledge of events, names and places. He laughed when he caught Richard out, a friendly pat on his back to soften the one-upmanship. People, especially his colleagues at Birchwood, adored Rory. He paid them far more than was necessary, financing a new home for his PA out of his own money. He wanted to work with people he liked, make deals with people he respected, and if he made a few bob from his efforts, he would be happy but happier still that he did it his way. Rory met Richard at one of his investor club meetings and they quickly settled into many debaucheries having little to do with business. There were good stories to be had, they said. Everything that could go wrong was going wrong and Fianna Fail, the ruling party, was wrestling with one scandal after another. GUBU became the moniker for all those searching for ridiculous gain in preposterous settings—a common feature of Irish politics and business. Rory repeated this story often to Richard, who always laughed at its implications. Dublin welcomed guests like a brothel owner hiding products with dim red lights and makeup. Hey, Rory? Dublin traffic crawled leaving people focused on the turn of the century buildings that still occupied more than shiny glass and aluminum, although the sparkles these provided were much more exciting than their past. This was a new capital. This was a Celtic Tiger. You came for the business, sure, but we know business is always going to live next door to our traditions. Dublin never manufactured cars, or washing machines, the mechanized apparatus that lay in the hearts of homes. It manufactured potato-eating mongrels sitting in clover patches for tourists. It manufactured pubs. It manufactured places like Temple Bar and tacked plaques on stonewalls tracing histories back to bloated novels no longer of much importance except to a few relics at Trinity. You guys are making more software than any other place on earth. Shit, Dublin has changed. I see far more American names around than M50 than Irish. I know some have done well. No one can take those away, not our history, not Americans like yourself, not even the English. Pubs had not changed much--dark wood, stone floors, old-fashioned signs for Guinness and pictures of hurling champions. The manufactured looked like the original, except it was paint and grease in the cracks rather than decades of dust and dirt. Guests are shuttled in from Clonskeagh by talkative North Dubs in battered taxis not a yellow or black among them. These guests need not go to pubs. It is lights, action, technology, money and a real European capital, these claim. Richard told Rory he liked Dublin because people like him were pioneers, forcing commerce upward, working with their hosts to keep Dublin rich, to use all its history to entice more tourists, to use its history as another way to build more comfortable homes, more comfortable lives. Americans may be making the real money now, but in a few years time, all of Dublin will prosper. For every tech-lo-million-half-ear there were a hundred old men with wrinkles, curled and deep, more sad than dignified, who always sought pints in real pubs and left trendy bars to college students and young professionals who spent wages on nights out while these men passed a few quid to get well pissed. These old men brought the nation to a halt over a proposed tax increase for a pint. Poetry was long and languid like the Liffey and could never make room for the sound and fury of New York. This place is booming now. Our best and brightest always leave. It is not from disloyalty. But, those of us who remain, the proud 3 million, less than all the Irish in New York, stay here for other reasons. But, Richard, a man like myself has made a good way in Dublin. Americans always have to prove themselves, one way or another, because they have no history gluing them in place. Dublin could not level its wrinkles, scrunched together as they were by the crooked streets thrown down around the Liffey whose putrid smells wafted through their tracks, narrowed by the traffic, taxis chasing busses in bumpy commuter lanes, rusty bicycles weaving in and out like drunken seamstresses, each wrinkle pushed deeper, shaking loose stones on every street, reminding people the impoverished past was right under their feet. Dublin was a circuitry of wrinkles, each person marching in worn cracks, contentedly helpless to let luck pave their way. Some were vivid and bright, spinning like ambulatory gold fish. Some clogged the works with their woolen jackets and dirty caps, moving from place to place glad to take a rest in their tight homes with their passive wives and ten kids. They were all Dubs and would remain so, despite the flashy upstarts invading their city. They knew their wrinkles were testament to those not strong enough to fall off the island years before, who stayed and made it, no matter what it might be, even if it was merely the stories they knew. Dublin still held these in smoke stained teeth, scrunching their faces to remind themselves of the lack of choices their island presented. He was raised on the Northside where a man is lucky to have a leaky roof and a way to salvage cash trafficking guns and drugs. Do you know it? He said it will be good craic. Fergus is a visual artist—painting, sculpture, the like. Now, he is not the type to have gone to the Dublin Academy, like our man Blaine. He is not the type to sell canvases at galleries. He is the type to plop himself on a street corner and hope passer-bys will drop a few coppers into his basket. You, see my man Fergus, God bless him, is going blind. He paid no heed at the time, but, well, I set him up and the tests came back petty dire. He will be completely blind in a few years. I feel horrible for him. What a shame for any man, but an artist, even a poor one. Well, the money for his trip was the least I could do. Oh, Fergus has a wit. We were falling about the place. He thought it made people pay closer attention to who they were. He said, how in the world does a mobile, a computer, and a sports car make us better able for it? He said, even a blind man can see that. Do you see what I mean, Richard? I simply gave him what I thought he deserved. Some people deserve much better than their lot, you know. Still, you are always surprising me with these stories of your generosity. How did such a successful property tycoon get such a big heart? Donald trump better never hear about you. They continued to share stories about Dublin, their business and what drove men to change, despite all signs to the contrary. This city will never change. We believe we can strive for something better. We change all the time. Thing is, we work hard to change. We work damn hard for what we want. Manifest destiny, and all that crap. We see what we want and take it. Richard would not take the bus or shake fists with cabbies at Paddy Power, throwing useless tickets down on horses. He would walk along Grafton Street and claim there should be more there for him to buy. He was especially adept at churning out business in Dublin. Rory watched in amazement as his American friend unfurled his business ideas across dinner tables and tumblers filled with scotch, not whiskey, describing robust markets, product viability, investment criteria. How much money are you prepared to invest, Padraig, Kevin, Niall, Cavan, etc? How many investors have you lined up? Rory sorted out the language and watched as others strung it together with their own cultural syllables. How lucky. How cursed. American visions were the most acutely visible from abroad and the most confused up close. Rory would keep to his property. Remember, I was married and divorced. Shit, that stuff is enough to force any man to change. Richard described his daughter, a beautiful girl they named after a Persian princess, and the big Victorian duplex in Cambridge where Richard held parties where his wife got drunk and hit on his professors. She told him not to and he decided to believe her. He believed her further when she supported his decision to leave the PhD program and join a brokerage firm where he found himself making two hundred and fifty cold calls a day. Richard found it cruel luck that his window looked across the Charles River where he could make out the campus he left. He quit the job in a December flurry after he made his last phone call to pensioners who lost their savings on stocks dumped by the bank. His wife left him when he told her life needed to be different, mainly her spending, and that he needed to do something else besides selling shity stock to the naive. He received the divorce papers via priority post. He was resigned, and then angry. He joined a group conducting leverage buy-outs in the Midwest. Big, oiled companies with heavy machinery and enough people to sack quickly, getting that early spike in the bottom line. It was a ride, launching into the depths of manufacturing and uncovering the mechanics and fluids that made money, that wrung profit in and out of processes. The work brought him to Switzerland where he started putting those skills to work for easier endeavors. The wife re-married and got his daughter to call the new man dad. Richard still sent her birthday gifts, which, he learned later, she never received. The money paved over the past nicely. It is just one of those things. Rory sipped the brown foam from the bottom of his pint, looked at his friend closely, recognizing how men live with such contradictions. Richard said people have to lie with the bed they make, matching contours with the right opportunities for the day to day. I can be anything I want. My great grandparents were Italian immigrants—now, do I seem particularly Italian to you? Opportunities presented themselves and I took advantage. I changed my life. Anybody in the States can fight to be an individual who uses religion, class, money, ethnicity—whatever—as a tool for identification and betterment. Look at the Irish. We got waves of your countryman who either massed around Irish totems—remember, St. Culture and history are tools of opportunity in the land of the free, for most people. This is as rich a cultural tapestry as anything else. Today, immigrants are barred easy entrance to the land of the free and barely free once they start wearing scarves around their heads or have streams of river water running off their backs. The pattern is still the same. It is still the same, land of opportunity, land of the opportunist. It is the American way. America is different. Anybody could do the same. What are we up to anyway? Talking around ourselves and up and around this pub. Even the mice are getting bored. Rory went to the bar to get the next round, stopping to think about the way these conversations seemed to go, and wondering if he could say something else to Richard. He was proudly jealous of the man and thought he should tell him so. Richard you are a good man. It is men like me who will always envy men like you. I have property and a name. Some men need more. With that, they left the pub. I like you. I like our pub talk. Take your America and go to sleep. He got massages and sweated for hours in the sauna during his first two days in the Metropolitan Hotel. He enjoyed the luxury. He got the parcel of drugs on the third. Now, three days later, he was wreck. You spend a lot of time looking at yourself in the mirror and masturbating to twenty-four hour porno. Beautiful thing that, in room cinema, except porno loses all effect pretty soon, as does masturbating. Something to do with your eyes and hands—MDMA twitches. Twitch twitch. He pulled at a corner, tearing it, as he told his brother about the massages and the drugs. Getting married. Billy was trolling through web sites as he spoke. Alright, ya? Billy pulled himself up and his bones tingled, burned and sent him back down again. Useless oblivion. There were a dozen burns in the carpet from cigarettes and hash, the largest from a dropped pipe made from an empty beer can. There were eight ecstasy pills wrapped like Pez candies Billy saw children pester mothers for in America. He still had a half bottle of tequila and some good scotch left. The tequila was hideous stuff. Billy opted for it. He rolled on the carpet, stalling to count the burns, stalling between the bottles, and pulled himself upright with the tequila. He was lucky. He was upright when he heard the beep-beep. The text had finally arrived. Fucking Guinness they want me to drink Guinness! After my three days? Fucking IRA. Vowels in Guinness. Bunch of wankers. What the fuck does Damon want me to do now? Fecking CIA. Billy pulled an Underground map from under the bed. The Internet was the only place Billy could get cute French Audrey Hepburn look-alikes fingering each other slowly, with long broad strokes , rather than the pummelling available on in-room movie channels. He pulled himself up, the closest to together, and logged on. He had different accounts with fictitious personal data entered for each and he checked each in turn. Damon had done his job. First account: joelinner hotmail. Message: Hey Joe: Did the research you wanted on the equity issues regarding the Irish. Will forward portfolio via the post. Second Account: lindadevinshire hotmail. Can you imagine the gall of this guy? Third account: marcusevansIII hotmail. Message: I sold them a bunch of shit. They even had the nerve to think they were the ones who supplied the guys in New York. This is a big mess for them. Forth account: rickyvicente hotmail. Message: As per our last meeting, please follow-up with John and his friend Qurayshi Mustar. This guy is in Paris. By the way, how was the trip to London? Did you stay at the Savoy as usual? You lucky bastard! Message: Please refer to my latest work. It can be found under the name John Sebastian at the Louisville main library. Lastly, you may also wish to consult the poetry of Jabril. It is tough in translation but beautiful all the same. Message: Cia o Bella! This other guy , the big-man out of Soho, could fuck up their whole new campaign if they are not careful. It could be a real big-ticket item. Billy cut and paste the italicised text into a separate document:. Irish trying to eliminate Mr. Mohammad Jedi supplied the guys in New York big mess for them Qurayshi Mustar guy is in London at the Savoy under the name Jabril CIA trying to get out of London him could fuck up their whole new campaign big ticket item. Mohammed ibn Qurayshi ibn Mustar ibn Jabril from Jeddah who sold them a bunch of shit and who also supplies the guys who hit New York. Big mess for them. This guy is in London, staying at the Savoy under the name Jabril Mustar. The CIA is already trying to get London to turn him over. This guy could fuck-up their whole new campaign. Big-ticket item. More work for a wary soul. He should have sold his years ago when he had the chance. Maybe he did. He needed to make sure the bill was paid up. He called down to reception and an Oxbridge accent answered. He hated London. Branson, how may we help you? Can you pull my bill up? Bronson, Room ? Yes sir. Would you like me to add this to your credit card? When the credit payment system linked with the hotel registry application, it wired Visa an intended charge of 0. I am a fecking James Bond. The man in AR would re-bill it with the correct charge only to find the Visa mainframe decline for insufficient credit. This would prompt the AR man to call Mr. Branson directly finding the number he gave the hotel, a pay-as-you go mobile number, rang without answer. Billy had thrown the SIM into a Soho bin. When the AR man contacted the credit card company, they told him the card belonged to one Mark S. Branson of Branson Professional Services, Ltd. Billy knew these were the steps the hotel would take and he knew it would eventually dawn on the AR man that the hotel had been conned and it would probably be better for them to mark it off as a bad debt expense. This is exactly what they did. Billy got ready to go, throwing his laptop, cords and IAI M into the bag with the money. He needed to keep everything with him, always. A hotel maid was as dangerous as the police. The pistol was heavy in the bag. He looked to see if he needed anything else. He grabbed the invitation. Billy crossed Hyde Park and decided he had time to walk to Fulham Broadway. It was in moments like this, with his body and mind whirling, before taking the next step, that he took time to think about his past. He was flooded with memories with distinct beginnings, middles and ends. For Billy, his memories were all story like. Someone entered, something happened, someone reacted, someone ended, characters moved off stage. His memories were weaved together with predictable arcs and meanings—right, wrong, life, death. I had to run and yet, once again, my mind would not leave me alone. I needed to focus. I was moving. I was on fire. I was being chased and my life was hanging by the hinge. This IRA scum-bastard could and probably would stick a blade in my chest and leave me. A real punk. What was I thinking? Why did I jump in when he threw the pint, the refrigerator door, dark Guinness, most of the punters more stunned by the waste of drink than the burst of violence, the beer, dripping down the refrigerator walls, green, brown and clear glass scattering across the floor, a whirlwind as Mick rounded the bar, showing agility he gained on the pitch. Mick, throwing his big arms around the kid and chucking him into the alley. Me, following after, pulling Mick off the punk-kid, telling him to go back to the bar, to tend his business, a new one, one where we were enjoying his recent opening by sitting by the fire and watching Munster beat Castres, on their own pitch. Lifting my hand to pound him square in the face, as hard as I could, bringing my shoulder into it, feeling the bulge of my bicep as my fist hit the hard bones of his face, wanting to break his nose and smother his eyes with a quick explosion of his own blood. Trying, in that instance, to mess him up. Succeeding quickly, especially given he was barely a slight of a boy, sixteen, maybe seventeen, like it made a difference. My hand, splattered with drops of blood from his nose that now hung from his dirty forehead like a peanut sack, shot down, grabbed his arm above the wrist and slammed his arm against the wall behind him, holding it there for a moment, his grip relatively tight on the knife. Me, dragging his arm across the rough bricks, the dimples of mortar cutting into his raw knuckles, tearing the flesh of his fingers. He dropped the knife. I hit him in the face again, this time with more force, my force pulled out from the anger of this cunt who had insulted me by pulling such a pathetic metal quip. He dropped. I kicked him again, and again, and again, each blow as clear to me now as it was then. I was ready to hit him again but he turned and ran down the alley, telling me to piss off even though, by now, his voice was quivering, mixed with blood and fear. I knew his brother. I ran and ran, crossing the bridge and looking across my shoulder. I outran the bastard. Billy crossed Fulham Road at the Bibendum and was proud of that first event, the event that led to others whose structures he determined. He had the confidence to meet the fucking IRA—the man probably would not give a shit that Billy was ratty, worn and drugged. Movies made it sound complicated, with various scenarios to disguise faces, whereabouts, guns. They made it all a farce, making the average killer have to be as smart and well trained as a Royal Marine or Green Beret. Billy never saw it that way. The task was simple. Find the guy. Kill him, make sure he is dead. Get out. The difficulty was getting his mind around extinguishing life. No more life there. When was someone going to snub him? Billy raged with music in soiled hotel rooms, the brownest and thinnest drink, the smallest of fucking pills. Billy stared at the Savoy. The hit was inside. Billy walked to the front desk and asked for Mr. They told him the room number and directed him to the bank of in-room phones. He dialed. Billy rushed to the elevators. He pressed the eighth floor. He ignored the securi-cams, as he always did. He never looked up. He reached the floor. He raced down the hallway, took out his M, slammed the silencer in place, and with a small axe head he thumped the door jam and easily plied the door open. Qurayshi was lying on the bed in a white bathrobe with his hand wrapped around his measly cock, his own in-room cinema showing the same film Billy had now seen a dozen times. Billy did not notice anyone else. He raised his gun and fired six shots, three in his head one missed and disappeared in the pillows behind him , and three in his chest. The silencer muffled little. It still sounded like six sharp pops Billy associated only with a gun. He scanned the room. No one emerged. He looked crossways down the hall, avoiding the secure-cams. No one was there. He took another clip out of his jacket and repeated. Three bullets into his head all three hit this time! Billy repeated the sideway scan down the hall. Nothing was moving, not even a mouse. He looked back at Qurayshi, and decided to empty one more clip for good measure. Qurayshi had not moved, screamed, or gurgled. The bastard was, literally, caught with his pants down. Qurayshi watched his door crash open and a man with a gun rush in. He sat there dumbstruck, waiting for what was going to happen next as if it were a movie. When the first bullet hit his face, he was shocked but not dead and too confused to yell, and after a few more shots the organism fights to stay alive but the soul is gone. Dorian LaGuardia. Excerpt from Wedding to the North , from Contact me for the full manuscript. Dorian LaGuardia Work is the only thing that separates us from the dogs. Oct Fiction , Lost , People. Plan Fionn opened and carefully piled the raised letter responses that arrived each day. I need to go. Just look out for yourself, son of mine. I miss a lot. Need Jeremiah kept talking. Lift Ophelia recognized imaginary crowns as men described their actions as noble and dignified. Bunch of locker room shite , she thought. Christian armies killed Muslims. You fuck off. Miss Rory, who had lived long enough in Dublin to make it a habit, was openly proud of his success. What happened there? What are you talking about? Get out of the hotel. No more twitches. Tk undgrnd 2 flhmbrdwy, irsh pb Guinness ld Mnster shrt Guinness! Fifth account: miked worldnet. Sixth account: sallygrimbaldi freeserve. Billy cut and paste the italicised text into a separate document: Irish trying to eliminate Mr. Time to go. Show 1 comment.

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