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About Navan

So I spot her—red heels, smokin’ a cig, leanin’ on a lamppost. I’m nervous, sweatin’ like a pig, mutterin’ to myself, “Can you hear me?”—straight outta the movie, ya know? She smirks, “What’s your deal, old man?” I laugh—hoarse, loud—cuz she’s got sass! I like that. “Just lookin’ for company,” I rasp, “not a billionaire, promise!” She rolls her eyes, “Good, they tip like shit.”

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But then, bam! A call comes in from a driver on Castle Street. He’s got a flat tire. I’m like, “Seriously? Castle Street? You couldn’t pick a worse spot?” I mean, it’s right by the castle, and you know how tourists are. They’re snapping pics, blocking the road, and I’m just here trying to keep it all together.

Death Notice of George Vaugh (Birr, Offaly)