There is a tiny red antique 2-seater, just at the end of the corridor on the first floor of The National Gallery of Ireland. Most of the time there is a Jack. B Yeat's painting within 5 feet of one's soul, which is not a bad place to be. My soul takes pleasure in such an exchange. My Irish heart misses the days of Civil War, Bloodshed and a valid excuse to kill the Animal Human.
Last time I was there, I spent an hour on the ground floor, thirty minutes on the Mezzanine and five in the adjoining shop, where I purchased two over-priced but under-valued postcards from Jack. They cost me a grand total of 9 pounds, or about 14 euro.
I have decided once I get off the Plane, do the business and find myself a bed, that I shall consume some duck with fresh peas and a nice glass of 10 year-old Bushmills Malt.
Then I shall call to order a sort of Wannsee Conference in my brain, where I shall be the decision-maker, treasurer, secretary and all manner of things to myself, for myself, because of others.
One fact everyone should know is that there is always a way to succeed at murder, all murders, all killings, every good act man partakes in can be cleaned so well that its as if it never happened in the first place. One must study the News first, learn the past mistakes of politicians, never forgetting democracy and all it entails. I learnt my trade from Politicians and Church Leaders. They are the epitome of all things murderous. People look up to them, not at them. They fail to see the blood-stained hands, they forget that all such animals have sharp well looked-after teeth.
P.S
The woman across from me seems to have fallen asleep. One of her eyes remains a teeny bit open, possibly a trick she learned as a child when her uncles took turns. I hope for her sake that she never wakes up. I could give her the gift of death, I could set her free right now, if she would only ask me...politely.
Monday, 8 September 2008
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