Paddy Nemesis

By Phil Cone

Fiachra Clancy: Friend, lover, poet, wit, raconteur, autodidact, philosopher, and Government assassin. Fiachra is going through the motions, as much as any assassin can, living life on the edge, life through sarcasm and bar fly philosophy...

Fiachra has been set up and everyone close to him is being rubbed out, Fiachra decides to run. He ends up in the last place he wants to be, Boyle, his home town that he hasn't been back to in eight years. A town gripped by recession and strangled by seediness, nothing is at is seems and nobody can be trusted.

The one-liners in this story will draw you in, and make you smile wryly, while the richly overlaid intelligence and humour will keep you reading. There is a poignant melancholy to the character, which will keep more romantic-minded readers hooked, and the action is delivered in a high-octane thrill-a-minute style, which will satisfy even the lustiest appetites for action.

There’s a lyrical charm to the scenic descriptions of Ireland’s lush green countryside, rolling hills and bleak small towns. The action, perfectly described drama, razor sharp humour, knowing winks to works such as Hamlet and Ulysses, add up to a sense that this story is an epic of our time.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Phil Cone
• Release date: Aug 28, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301669752

Phil Cone

Just eager to smash a rather large hole in the world of Crime Fiction

Book preview

Paddy Nemesis

By

Phil Cone

Copyright Phil Cone 2013

Published at Smashwords

This book is dedicated to Dylan and Finley and their endless opportunities

Chapter 1

Beware that, when fighting monsters, you yourself do not become a monster... for when you gaze long into the abyss. The abyss gazes also into you.

― Friedrich Nietzsche

Ballymun was a blot on the landscape. Languishing and festering inside its boarded up prison, it should have been knocked down in 2008, but there I was; up on the tenth floor of Pearse tower, pissing in bottles, working on my tan, waiting to be the catalyst that blew the area to bits

For the last eight weeks, like a cockroach without a home, I’d been searching the remaining six towers for the most opportune angle. I had recorded to memory a list of all the residents that remained, and what floors would be vacant. I knew what flats were cytexed and what flats had been broken into by squatters. I knew what time of day they left, what time they entered, and what time they went to score some smack.

Connolly and Clarke towers were the only two blocks that were occupied by official residents. Not sure why, as they were neither south facing nor had views of the expansive industrial vista beyond the estate, just a view of the surrounding decay of 1960’s social housing. They were also the only two blocks with electricity and running water.

I was frozen, sat down behind the balcony wall, looking down the corridor at the stairwell, the wind whistling around the concrete columns, so cold my bones ached, I crushed the top of my spine as I looked back behind me, over the wall, I could just see a metallic grey cloak of cloud promising rain and further depression. My stomach was growling with hunger, I hadn’t eaten for days, and the last thing I ate was a stale slice of bread I’d found in one of the flats when the squatters were out getting their fix.

Ballymun was like Compton on a bad day; abject poverty that wasn't mirrored anywhere else in the country. Heroin was the biggest commodity around the damp stairwells and underpasses. Most of the lads up at the 'Joy were either in there for using, dealing or thieving. Most of them came from Ballymun.

I was tasked with killing Brian O'Connell or the Judge as the Sunday World had nicknamed him. O'Connell was the poor man's General. He ordered the poor man around, made him do things he never thought of doing then became judge, jury and executioner of the poor man, the disenfranchised, the vulnerable and the weak.

He ran Ballymun. Nobody else wanted it. Nobody gave a fuck about it. He was reported to have killed key members of rival gangs, a turf war that could spread over the north-side, just so he could control Ballymun. In actual fact my contact in a rival gang had laughed this off, saying that if any member of his gang had been shot, he would have been shot off the back of an internal dispute, nothing to do with O'Connell.

He would have been more interested in what the papers had to say. It was probably himself who called up the papers that fella who was nailed to the ground in the sign of the cross, it was that O'Connell's lot who done for him. My contact said nobody in their right mind wanted Ballymun, sure it was all going to be knocked down anyway, but that’s been said for the last four years and there’s no money to knock the blocks down, let alone build anything in its place

And therein lay the problem. Dublin County Council believed if O'Connell and his band of merry men went, then it would be a lot easier to get the remaining residents out. No heroin, no point staying. Just move, and buy it somewhere else. So their Chief Executive spoke to someone at my end, and I picked up a package at the usual collection point at the lockers in Connolly Station, and that’s how I wound up here.

I followed O'Connell for the first week. I could have followed him for two days: he was a creature of habit. A broken record of violent sex with his wife, breakfast, out with the boys for a tour of his wealth, arriving in the forecourt at Ballymun at 10.30, and sitting in his blacked out Land Rover while the boys went out and dealt. This normally lasted for just over half an hour, dependant on the queue. He always had a sentry outside the car whilst he spent his time on the phone. The sentry had two handguns inside his waistband at the rear. He thought he was Nicholas Cage in Face/Off and was clearly a wanker.

I became friendly enough with one of the dealers, friendly in so much as I had cash on the hip, and he didn’t kick the shite out of me - it’s all about blending in. So, I let my hair grow longer, dark and unwashed. I let my beard grow, ginger and ragged. I starved myself to go for that emaciated, user or hunger-striker chic. I had created a good enough back-story: I told the dealer Anto had sent me. There was always an Anto on a drug dealer’s lists of contacts. My accent was inner-city Dub, with a drawl like a Southern States redneck. I had a twitch in my eye, like a laser pen was constantly being fired at it. He never told me his name whenever I asked for it, I guess just for the rudeness of it at first - he liked to tell me to fuck off when I tried to engage him in conversation. All I was doing was reconnaissance. I was biding my time, looking up at the towers to see where I could find a nice clean line of sight for the whole of the forecourt. I always carried my rucksack with me whenever I ventured away from my hide. In the guttering under the balcony, I placed my SR25 rifle, wrapped up in waterproof plastic. In the rucksack, I had the carrier for the rifle and my piss bottles, pouring them out into the overgrown communal gardens to be used again.

I had taken the small bag of smack off of the dealer as per usual - after I paid €80 for the privilege. Because my body was all compressed from sleeping up against the wall, my legs took a while to recognise I was walking, though this helped with the whole method acting, as it looked like I had suffered from a Polio attack overnight. I hobbled past the Land Rover as the sentry opened the door, and I could see O’Connell on the passenger seat - talking loudly on his phone. There was somebody else in the rear of the car behind the driver’s seat, somebody new, someone smartly suited, looking out of the passenger window - somebody who was going to die very soon, along with every individual in the surrounding area. As I made my way back - in case I had eyes on me - I walked into the communal entrance of Clarke tower, before breaking into a run. I slipped over on a pool of piss, not mine, and was disgusted at how un-human humans could be. I opened the bag and poured the powder into the puddle, dropped the now empty bag, and ran towards the rear door, aimed my shoulder at the point where it was locked, and it broke so easily, it was a wonder it was locked at all. I turned right, and ran to the edge of the block - quick peeks round the corner, back onto the forecourt - business as usual, nothing malign had appeared on their radar. Pearse was just over the way, and I made it in a fraction of a fraction of a second into the back doors and took the steps two at a time. By the fourth floor, sixteen years of smoking had set my lungs on fire and they were ready to explode out of my chest, but I could die later, as long as I did this now. Keep going, ignoring the sweat, not even an option to stop and have a breather.

Focus.

Eighth floor, I would love to have a lie down after this - feel like I’m going to puke. Tenth floor, a crawl along the floor, wall for cover, snail pace, worried they could hear my heartbeat, the most unprofessional professional. Grab the package and unwrap the plastic; the rifle - already prepared - was taken out and rested against the wall to my left.

I heard movement coming down the stairwell above me, something squeaky and being wheeled. I took out the Glock 17 from my inside jacket pocket, aiming at nothing, but ready for whatever it was about to come into my sight. It was a pushchair with an 18 month old boy in it.

And I thought I looked dirty.

I slipped the gun back inside my jacket. His mother wore a green velour tracksuit, a rip in the crotch which revealed a pair of what would have been at some point white knickers. Her fingernails were caked with dirt as if she'd been scraping at the ground like some wild animal. Her face was hollow and her eyes so bloodshot I couldn't tell what colour they were. She looked through me like I wasn't even there. Her child looked like he had never been given a bath.

She rolled her sleeve up and got her hand in under the pushchair and pulled out a make-up bag. She opened it up to reveal the necessary ingredients for a smack head, rusted Uri Geller spoon, syringe, strap, lighter and a bag of white powdered gold. She took the strap and tied it around her upper arm swiftly, not a novice in any sense of the word. The dead veins and tracks were too hard not to notice, a good five year’s worth of addiction, I’d guess.

That her son hadn’t been taken off her by the State was a tragedy.

She started heating the powder in the spoon with the lighter, clearly not caring about her son’s discomfort, as he was battling to get out from under the straps and beginning to whinge. She didn't notice when he started crying, obviously having witnessed this sequence many times before.

- Shut up!

She started tapping her forearm to try to get up any vein to pump the poison in. Her son started screaming louder and tears streamed down his red cheeks.

- For fuck sake - shut up.

This only encouraged him more, it was torturous. I couldn't move because I'd spent the last few days working out the angle of the shot from here, not the 9th or 11th floor.

O'Connell’ or his lads were surely going to be able to hear this screaming. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

She had drawn the liquid into the syringe and brought it to her vein, which she punctured it and drew some blood in. The child was screaming blue murder, and without saying a word, she took her right hand off the plunger and slapped her son across the face with the back of her hand.

- I fucking said shut up.

I brought up some vomit and spat it into the drain to my right. I looked on in disgust and anger as she went back to pushing the plunger down, as if what had just happened hadn't happened. Her eyes opened briefly, pupils massively dilated and she looked at me and smiled then leaned backwards, the smack taking instant effect.

I looked at her son, massive welts from her fingers on the left side of his cheek, she had knocked him unconscious: she was some vile cunt. I checked his pulse and breathing, all normal and I opened his mouth to see if there was any food in there or if he'd swallowed his tongue, he hadn't. He didn't need a life like this. I was just about to un-strap him, abort the mission, wait till tomorrow, I was gonna take him to the social and report his mum, give him a better chance. I couldn't do anything with her in the state she was in.

I was getting him out of the chair, getting the strap of the rucksack off my shoulder, ready to pack everything away, needed a quick exit, so O'Connell's dealers wouldn't see me leave the tower with an unconscious baby in tow. I didn't even question how I get myself into these situations.

I looked at his mother; her skin was a waxy yellow, barely stretching over the bones that were all that was left of her body. There was a milky-white substance coming out of the corner of her mouth and left nostril. She was OD'ing. Her kidneys must have begun to fail months, if not years ago. How she was ever big enough to bear a child, God only knows - she looked like a famine victim - just with fewer flies and no songs of lament to be sung.

I could literally see the other organs beginning to fail right before my eyes. The heroin must have been an anaesthetic of sorts, or she would have died in a screaming agony - the most disgusting death I have ever seen - and I've seen plenty. Her groin was soaked where she wet herself, her body expelling all waste products, the needle still stuck in her vein.

This had changed things.

Regardless of the success of what I'm about to do, the baby was coming with me, atonement is a great way to clean my conscience even if I didn't feel guilty. There was too much of a risk to his safety if he was left here. I had a close friend, John, who worked in the Mater and would ensure no questions were asked, knowing that I would have had good reason to bring an unconscious child to him. In a few days, I would be able to create a brand new identity for the child and ensure that the State doesn't end up being responsible for him

I looked over into the forecourt, O'Connell’s dealers were on the other side in the underpass between McDermott and Ceantt, nothing unusual there, and the sentry was walking around the car as per. I looked out behind where the car was parked and there was oil on the ground. O'Connell mustn’t have wanted that shite on the wheels, there would be no grip and the car would have slipped on the road like Bambi on ice.

I may have watched too much A-Team as a kid, but I could feel a plan coming together.

I put the baby back in his chair, grabbed the rifle and rested it over the wall, sun behind me, no reflection of the scope and realised I'd about a minute to do this in.

I checked her pulse and breathing first, nothing. If there was a de-fib here, I wouldn't have used it. She was brain-dead enough, but the lack of oxygen would have killed off the remaining brain cells, and I would have chosen to not resuscitate her. I may be playing God - but then the real God was a pussy, and should have killed her off years ago. I lifted her up by the arms and dragged her over to the view-point.

Fuck me, why are dead people so fucking heavy?

I looked over and the two dealers had a queue, the sentry looked bored. The moment was now.

I lifted up this waste of space, junkie mother, and pushed her up and over the gap and let gravity do the rest. It wasn't a peaceful fall from grace, she spun round 360 degrees and it wasn't slow in my mind at all, quite the opposite. Before she hit the roof of the car, I got the rifle, and aimed it at the two lads in the underpass. I had them both in my sights. An almighty crash - exploding glass, a shriek from Nicholas Cage and the two lads look up towards the car, their customer’s star burst and the lads begin to run towards the car. First shot hits the guy on the left, just above the bridge of his nose, a mist of blood and brain out of the back of his head and before he's fallen, I've swivelled round to the guy on the right, who's instinctively ducked down from the first shot but is still running. The second shot enters his skull at the top of his hairline, peeling the skin on the top of his head back. The flaps of hair-covered skin revealed - for a fraction of a millionth of a second his skull- and the bullet travelled down through his brain and exited at the top of his spinal column. Paralysed and dead but no need for a wheelchair to take him to his grave.

I wished for an element of luck as I brought the scope down to the oil, the ground around it wasn't wet so I figured the bullet ricocheting off the tarmac would create enough sparks. I fired, and the whoomp of the flame followed by the bang of the sudden expulsion of oxygen made me move back from the scope. Funny thing is, when a bullet hits the ground, it doesn't bounce back off it, it travels along the ground at a greatly reduced speed.

Before the second guy had fallen, the third bullet had shattered his right foot, I stood up, the sentry had turned into a statue, only his head moving from the junkie flesh on top of his boss’ car to the sudden explosion behind the land rover. The fourth bullet entered the top of his head, it exploded like a melon being dropped from a great height, the bullet travelled through the upper part of his body, pulping all vital organs, and exited through the back of his thigh. I swivelled left, and O'Connell was just getting out of the car - stupidly. The roof of his car was caved in and the explosion had tempted him out of his sanctuary. I saw a tattoo of a Fighting Irish Leprechaun on the back of his left ear and fired at it, the back of his skull came away and his brain slid out the hole. One last bullet, I fired it into the bonnet of the land rover and I hit the jackpot, it blew, sending bits of scorched flesh across the forecourt and up in the air, the heat was intense. The passenger in the back of the car was fucked.

I knelt back down, bagged the rifle, picked up the spent cartridges, out them in my pocket looked around me to make sure I hadn’t left any litter or anything that would have my DNA on it. Nothing. I grabbed the still unconscious child out of the chair, and headed towards the stairwell. This lad was some lump, but at least I didn’t have to go higher. I was on the ninth floor landing and I could hear the rear communal door crashing open and heavy footsteps. I looked over and down the stairs to see if anyone was coming up, and they were, three of them, armed police.

Chapter 2

Never be complacent is the rule of thumb, I guess. Although I wasn’t expecting the unexpected, I hadn’t just been looking for the best location in which to kill five people. I’d made provisions for this type of situation - escape routes that didn’t mean taking the stairs or the lift. I had hoped that I would never have to use them. I checked that there weren’t any more officers coming up the stairs - no talking or shouting or radio communications. I ran back up to the tenth floor, over to the balcony facing out to the rear of the block, looked at the surroundings - no other officers visible, one police car with lights off.

I’d been fucked.

I ran back over to the front facing balcony, and looked down to the forecourt at the burning metal and singed flesh - nothing living. I looked over at Connolly block, directly in front of me, and saw the reflection of the scope caught in the sun. I rolled my back around the concrete supporting column as a shot hit the corner of the pillar and flung out shrapnel and dust, scratching my face, choking my lungs. The baby, still out of it, was hugged into my chest, my shoulder trying to shroud him from any further damage. Whoever the shooter was, he would be unable to see the stairwell as I went back down the stairs to the ninth floor, let the baby down and peered round the corner of the pillar - hoping the shooter would be able to see that I was going downstairs rather than up. I slid down the balcony wall, not wanting to wait any longer to be fired at. I kicked the front door to flat 901 open. The shooter saw this - the shot went over my head and hit somewhere inside the flat. I then crawled back along to the stairwell, grabbed the baby, climbed the stairs, sticking to the wall, avoiding any line of site from the opposite block.

I climbed up to the twelfth floor and looked down. I could see that the officers had not yet reached the ninth, but were only a floor or two behind. I didn’t want to stop, so climbed up to the top floor, the fifteenth. I peeked around the corner, could see the gunman on the tenth floor of Connolly block, aiming towards the lower floors of the block I was in. Two of the officers had split from the group, they were on the ninth floor, obviously searching 901 and any other flats that took their fancy. The other one was doing the whole text book procedure for a lone, armed officer - taking his time, not rushing, sweeping his line of sight and moving slowly towards me. He was either new to this, or else he wasn’t from Dublin. He put his finger to his ear, listening to the radio, stomach in my mouth time, said something into the receiver moved back down towards the ninth floor – a little reprieve.

My arms were starting to hurt from carrying the baby as I tried to move him more over onto my shoulder. I was down on my knees, crawling in the dirt, like I’ve been doing in different variations since I was a teenager. I turned over onto my back, manoeuvring the baby round onto my stomach, and pushed myself along - toward flat 1512 - the furthest flat along the corridor. I hid in the shadow of the overhanging roof. The door wasn’t locked shut, it was on the latch. I had spent part of the week cleaning these corridors of all the syringes and used condoms, ensuring I got to the other end without anything stuck to my head, or stuck in my arse cheek. I pushed the door open with my head, and got the both of us in with the door only slightly ajar.

I got a few metres into the flat, laid the baby on the carpet and shut the door as if I hadn’t a care in the world. Then I locked the deadlock, the Chubb lock and put the three chains across the door. I put my ear up to the door - just heard the sound of the burning wreckage below. I looked out of the spy hole, nobody outside - nothing. I spun round into the hallway, checked the baby was still with me, as I put him in the recovery position. I don’t know if he was sleeping or unconscious, same thing, but at least he was breathing, his cheek still flushed red. My hatred for the mother was on par with whoever was shooting at me outside the door.

I walked into the lounge - the carpet and the underlay were rolled up and in the corner of the room. Floorboards were piled up under the closed curtained window. I peered into the hole, and the mattress of a double bed was below me in 1412. There was a box of large latex gloves by the hole and I grabbed a pair and put them on. I went back out to the hall and into the kitchen, opened up all the drawers and cupboards, and found two tea towels and threw them out into the hall. I went into the bathroom, behind the door was a large, very thin and much worn bath towel, but it would do. I pulled it down so hard off the door that the hook came off and pinged me on the forehead, under any normal circumstances, that would have annoyed me so much that I would have taken the door off its hinges, because I felt that it had some kind of a grievance against me.

I wrapped the three towels around the baby, the bath towel went round him four times, with that and the tea towels, he was more cushioned than a cloud pillow. I put the straps of the rucksack over both shoulders, grabbed the baby, and put him over my right shoulder in the style of a fireman’s lift.

This wasn’t the most sensible idea even when it was just me I had to worry about, and now I’m shitting myself for two. I sat on the edge, legs hanging over as I hear the front door of the flat down the corridor being kicked in. Like Elvis said, it’s now or never. I went to push myself over the side - every instinct in me telling me to not be so fucking stupid. But, dropping twelve feet may have been crazy but it was necessary. I was worried about the child and his need for medical attention. I pushed off with my left arm, baby held firm with my right, and I dropped through to the fourteenth floor. I landed on the mattress and bounced off to my left hand side.

My fucking back.

I looked up at the hole we'd just jumped through and still couldn't hear anything out of the ordinary.

The baby was still fine. Sleeping like a baby.

I looked down into the hole a couple of metres away from the mattress. The mattress in 1315 was covered in aged piss stains and burns from cigarettes; it was the best of the bunch in the flat.

I couldn’t do this all the way down. On a good practice run, it had taken me just over four minutes to reach the ground floor from the fifteenth.

No time to weigh up options: Child – Needs – Medical - Attention

Clasped to my chest like the child of one of those tea leaf pickers, we dropped down onto the thirteenth. I really should have sprayed Fabreeze - couldn't even think about breaking a smile at the apparent wit.

We dropped down into 1215, entering the only flat in the drop down that looked like it had been looked after. They couldn't change the exterior, so the tenants took pride with the interior. I’d bet these former occupiers wouldn't have had a family member in the 'Joy, or threaten repo men with knowing someone in the 'RA who'd kneecap them if they came knocking again. This wasn't a place where repo men had visited. This wasn't a place of violence or crime – in this flat you'd feel warm and welcome - even in the cold of winter with the heating off.

I was glad the tenants weren't here to see me change that,

I laid the child in the recovery position and got the rifle out of the rucksack. I stood up by the front window, behind the netted curtains and peered through like a nosey neighbour.

I didn’t see much, because the window had been cytexed externally, but daylight was still coming through. I got the handle of the Glock and tapped it against the corner of the single glazed window. The wooden frame was rotten, and the pane dislodged from it and landed flush up against the cytex. I made a grab for it, before it dropped down the gap and smashed on the concrete floor outside. I managed to get hold of it, and brought it back into the flat and laid it down on the mattress.

The cytex hadn’t been drilled in properly, and was pliable enough to be pushed out. With about as much tension as I could muster, listening out for any possible anomalies, I pushed out the panel, allowing me a view of the balcony and Connolly block. I then realised I’d just wasted my fucking time.

I could only see the twelfth to fifteenth floor of Connolly - the shooter was on the tenth. I would have kicked myself, but what use would that have been - probably would have missed anyway. At least I had allowed more light into the flat and was able to see a bit more clearly.

The front door was easy enough to open and the cytex plate had been drilled into the wooden frame.

The baby moved - I swear it did - looking, distracted. I hoped to fuck that it didn’t wake up now and start to cry, I redoubled my efforts, clawing at the frame, trying to peel it away from the brickwork like it was Panini sticker. There was definitely movement - momentum was being gained. The frame was so fragile, it would have been easy enough to remove that and the door, it was the boarding up of the cytex that was causing the stubbornness of the frame to budge much more.

-C’mon ya bitch.

I felt movement. As the creaking and the warping intensified I pulled the door and the frame. Finally it gave. I stumbled back and fell back on my arse, the clattering of the frame was loud enough for me to stop breathing momentarily in case it had alerted the lads outside or the baby in here with me. I couldn’t decide if he was a baby or a toddler or a child or what - but - what in the fuck was I thinking?

Standing up, I grabbed the cytex. The metal plate covering the door, now not having anything to lean up against, was likely to fall out - landing against the concrete wall causing a loud enough bang they’d be made to not investigate.

I moved it to the left so it was leaning against the front wall of the flat - giving me enough room, if I breathed in, to get out onto the balcony. I went back and got the rifle, crouched down and stepped out onto the pathway. A door was being kicked in somewhere below me, they were still on the ninth, no time for floor by floor searches, fairly amateur shit.

I got to the stairwell on the twelfth, stood up, swung round, looked through the scope, directly opposite and counted two down. The sweat was matting my already greasy hair, my forehead damp, droplets streaking their way down my cheeks, hands firm on the stock of the weapon, latex ensuring that the grip is solid, sweeping my eyes across the tenth floor opposite and, there he is, stood up in full combat gear, looking down at the ninth floor of Pearse, through the scope on his firearm and then down to the forecourt and back.

How easy it would be to just pop a round into his head. The helmet protects the top of the head, but I can still see most of his face and his neck. Pop one into his throat, jugular artery is hit and he’ll bleed out in ten minutes.

But I’m not a monster; I don’t kill good guys pretending to be bad or bad guys pretending to be good. I just maim them. Bringing the scope down to follow his right arm, elbow pads hindering upper arm shots, further down, no gloves – amateur I compress the trigger, the internal mechanisms are eager and ready to show me how good it and I can all be, combined together.

The holding of breath, the trigger pressed down, the bang, the slight recoil, still fixed, target down, still alive but in a lot of fucking pain and unable to wank for the foreseeable.

Then I run. Back into 1215, the baby still in the recovery position, and still breathing. I bag the rifle and take out a smoke grenade from the rucksack, run back out onto the corridor, down to the stairwell, pull the pin and throw it back up the stairs towards the thirteenth floor. I run back again to the flat, grab the rucksack and put it over both shoulders, grab the child and jump down onto the eleventh floor. Back - ready to give up the ghost. I hoped that I had caused enough of a disturbance in the force for the three officers to come up and investigate. I also had hoped that they hadn’t gotten to 915 or they would have seen two suspect holes in the ceiling and floor. I also hoped that I’d win the lottery or find a decent woman, but hoping is just lazy wishful thinking.

With the

Reviews for Paddy Nemesis

[Erika Grobb · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

So rough, so crude but there you are; a little church mouse nailed to each page.