Project Protection

[TFinnegan]

Finn freezes, his jaw locks.
Slowly, deliberately, he swallows his mouthful of whiskey.
His lips curl back from his teeth, slowly.

"Mollys, Jimmy, lad?
Are ye oot o' yer fek'n moind?
Reaver lovin' bloody Mollys?"

His calm is dissolving, veins stand out on his forehead.
Tattoos twist and dance on his arms.
He cricks his neck and spits on the floor.

"Them sheep-bugg'rin' Mollys usta be good lads, aye - back when th' Republic were in charge o' bonny Dublin, sure.
But ye do know tha Reavers walk th' halls o' Arranmore an' Lisburn, aye?
Oi seen them pess-stain mercs wif me own ruttin' eyes on Arry.
Oi wouldnae trust them bloody-minded Molly sellouts far as Oi can toss 'em."

Finn hurls an empty glass against the floor, fully snarling now.
He slams his knuckles down onto the tabletop and leans forward on his fists.

"Oy, Jimmy, even if ye'z could talk t' them lot wifoot vomitin' up yer lunch - can ye'z be sure they willnae pack tha' Scylla full o' Reavers as a wee Trojan 'orse, aye?"
Finn shakes his head and stares daggers at his friend and boss.
"Dinnae arsk ol' Finn ter talk t' them Irish peckerwoods - someone's boond ta' end up deed.
Stone, bleedin', deed."

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