It only hurts when I laugh

It was a typical Irish day. The clouds were overhead, and had been for weeks, sprinkling their soft, soft mist evenly over the greenest place on earth.

Those are images I took during my stays in county Limerick(Loch Derg) and Tipperary.

I'm in the office, speaking to the management in Dublin today; wishing I were elsewhere.

Why? Well, because earlier today I had a bit of a setback...

I was sent out to Leixlip. Hell, since I am in an image posting mood, here's the ONLY image I knowingly possess of my several visits to Leixlip:

Today I am sent to well on the other side of Mondello Park to deliver a vehicle. I gotta say I do like Leixlip and Maynooth. A friend of mine lives in a cottage near the castle. I might have to give him a call after I am done updating this blog. Where was I? Oh yeah, so I am struggling to find this house with no address in the outskirts of Leixlip. Try as I might, I am not having any luck finding this place. I call the owner twice, and really didn't want to call them a third time, especially since I barely understood the man for his accent. It seems I've been driving forever in the middle of nowhere when I see a man trimming his hedge. I decided to try my chances of some information off of a random stranger even though most country folk really do not appreciate you parking a big truck outside of their drive way.

"You're not gonna park that there for long, are you?"

"Uh... Nah. NO. I mean, I was hoping to ask you for directions." I was parked a bit close to his hedge to allow traffic to pass me on the tight country road.

"Here now. Where are ye from then, if you don't mind my asking?" The man sized me up. I think he was expecting something other than my own accent to come outta me. Lots of Eastern Europeans work this type of job, it seems. I told him I was an American. I explained how it was I arrived at his doorstep from Texas to Dublin to now. I also informed him how stunningly beautiful the country was where he lived. 

"Oh my. You've had a long journey then? Sure, you'll have a cup of tea with us."

Uh oh. 

"Oh, um...I can manage a quick drink, I suppose. Do you smoke?". I didn't bother to fight the tea. You just can't fight the tea in Ireland. Don't even try. I knew he smoked. There were cigarette butts among the trimmings on the drive.

"Oh, Lucky Strike? Not only are Americans a bit rare in these parts, but I've never seen those cigarettes before. Moireen!!!", he yelled over his shoulder for his wife to bring us some tea. He didn't have to wait long, she was bringing the tea out nearly the moment we started speaking.

Moireen was lovely and charming. She did seem a bit young to be a wife, I thought. She certainly wasn't acting like his daughter, though.

"You're not parking that lorrie there long, are you?"

I looked at Moireen and was about to respond.

"No, Moireen. He's only just lost."

I was feeling more lost by the moment. She had a very strong Russian accent. Maybe Polish. But an Irish name? That accent was amazingly sexy on her. I wanted her to speak more.

"Uh," I couldn't speak. My nerves had caught my tongue. Now I wanted me to speak more.

Fortunately both Moireen and her husband did enough talking to get my fill of Moireen's accent and also find my way to the drop off. I jumped back up into the truck just in time to avoid a sudden down pour of rain.

"So, I hear horses are as smart as dogs." I was trying to make some conversation after I had dropped the car off in what appeared to be a horse ranch sorta place. The rain was rhythmically tapping on the roof of the stable, and filling the air with the scent of musk. The horses certainly smelled like wild animals, but it was a familiar smell as I had been around horses on numerous previous occasions. What does one call a horse ranch? Don't these people have fancy names for such things? Just, 'Horse Ranch'? I began to rub the horse between his ears. He seemed to like it.

"Oh, thank God, no!", the man looked down at his Labrador admirably and then back to me. "This guy was nothing but trouble until he reached nearly six years of age!". 

He reached out to me and handed me a bill. I wasn't expecting anything. I looked down to see it was a twenty Euro bill. At the time that was the equivalent of nearly thirty five dollars. I couldn't take that much for a tip!

"I can't take this much for a tip!"

"Oh, gowan! Listen, the tow's free to me, so the least I can do is sort you out for coming out to me in the ersatz!"

"I'm just gonna go spend it on cigarettes and alcohol." Did he say 'Ersatz'?

"I want you to! And cheers for the help!"

I dunno what connections he had to make dispatch send me over and drop off his car for free, but I wasn't going to argue. It wasn't any of my business, anyways. I thanked him profusely and went on my way.

None of the roads in the area had names, nor were any of them on the sat nav. Still, I managed to find my way nearly to Mondello Park without any missteps. I was wondering what to do after work with the tip. It's nice having cash on hand for the drive back home. I already had a fresh pack of Luckies on hand. I retrieved the pack from my coat pocket and brought a cigarette to my mouth. Ugh! My hand smelled of ass. Ok, that horse must have been rolling around in the hay or something, because that stank. Dear Lord.

"Dear Lord!!!"

I swerved as hard as I dared in the rain to avoid the lorrie that tried to turn in front of me. He slammed on his brakes, but was still easily 5 feet in my lane. I was on a sweeping right hand curve, so the curvature of the road helped me miss what I could now clearly see was a big Scania semi truck protruding from the other lane. Unfortunately, it also made it easy for me to go on the wet grass on the side of the road. I tried not to slam on my brakes, as I knew it would risk losing control on the grass. I tried to ease the truck off of the shoulder and back onto the tarmac when the truck stopped responding. I didn't know it at the time, but there was a culvert underneath the tall grass. I wasn't going anywhere now but forwards when my left side wheels entered it. Forwards from that was a large hedge. I would estimate I hit that hedge at about 50 miles an hour. It was a horrendous noise. Hedges in Ireland are not simply some bushes laying about. They are designed to control livestock or separate fields, and can be quite substantial. This hedge was more substantial than others. After about thirty or forty yards of plowing through that hedge, I hit a tree stump. It was large enough to nearly instantly stop me. I wasn't wearing my seat belt. I had undone it to reach my cigarettes.

For a moment, it was quiet. Well, truthfully, I had no idea how long I had been sitting there. I knew I was hurt, but I wanted to wait a bit before I checked myself out.

Someone opened the door to my cab. I turned to see a man looking up at me. He had wellies on. He must be the farmer. When I hit the stump, I was forced into the steering wheel. The dash on the Mercedes I was driving was so cavernous it saved me from slamming my face through the windshield. My hands must have hit it, though. They hurt, and the window had cracks. I could barely breathe for the pain in my chest and abdomen.

"Hey! Are we alright then, are we?" shouted the farmer with some urgency.  My ears were ringing, and he sounded like his mouth was full of rocks, so don't take my word for it that that is what he actually said.

"No fucking air bags?! How old is this thing?!" I now noticed I was spitting blood. The farmer noticed, too.  My face must have hit the steering wheel. He handed me a rag that smelled of diesel. I wiped the blood from my face, and then wrapped it around my left hand. It hurt more than my right hand at the time. I slid down onto the ground from the cabin and looked into the side mirror. It was just a slight bloody nose and a cracked lip. I could barely stand. So, I sat down. I had trouble focusing as well. This only helped to make me even more nauseous.

"Oh no! We can't park it here!" 

If it were possible at the time, I would have looked up and gave the man a scowl for saying it, but it hurt just to sit.

"I mean, we mustn't stay here. Your lorrie is leaking fuel."

I really didn't want to move. I reached in to my coat pocket and pulled out a pack of Luckies.

"It's diesel. I doubt it will ignite." I lit a cigarette. This had the added effect of also catching the rag on fire. I stared at it with mild surprise, thought about how to save the cigarette for an instant, then gave up and plunged them both into the cold, wet grass. I sighed. It hurt to sigh. I could use a cigarette.

"OK, you have a point." I leaned on the farmers shoulders after he helped me to my feet. I was led to the man's tractor and sat on the small trailer attached behind it. I stared blankly at the ground.

"What are we going to do now?" he asked as he helped me light another cigarette.

I took a look around for the other truck. It was long gone, and not another soul was around. I thanked him and handed him a twenty Euro bill. He stared at it. There was some blood on it now.

"Now?", I said with a bit of labor. "Now, we lose our job."

Tea with Bourbon

Nowhere in the world have I had to struggle with the formalities of being offered a tea so much as my first visit to Ireland. Southerners are used to having their tea red, cold, and maybe with some sugar. Drinking tea hot was a rare event. We drink hot coffee during the 2-3 weeks of winter. So, at first, I honestly wasn't really eager to accept a warm mug of tea. The first time I was offered some by my Irish GF's mother, maybe 15 years ago or so, it went something like this:

"Cup o' tea?"

"Pardon?"

"You'll have some tea will you?"

"Oh, thanks. But, we must be going soon."

"Just a cup of tea then..."

"Oh no, thank you so much. I'm fine, really."

"Oh sure, you'll have some tea."

"Oh no, please don't put yourself out. I am perfectly fine. We'll only be here a moment before we've got to catch the bus".

"Oh you're silly. Sugar?". I was surprised to see some tea arrive moments later after I gave her a smile and a nod. I thought she simply had said, "You're silly, Sugar".

She dropped two lumps into the mug before me.

"Milk?"

"Oh, nah. Uh, plain is fine for me, thanks."

"Ah, you'll have a bit of milk."

"Oh, really this is just fine", I replied in earnest. Tea with milk? It was an odd suggestion for me at the time.

"Sure have some milk."

"That's really very kind to offer, but I'm -"

"Not a bother", She immediately poured milk in to my tea. At this point I'm wondering where my GF had gone off to. I tried not to act surprised.

"Oh ohohoh. Wait.", she admonished. I stopped my drinking, and looked up to see her disappear from the room. Moments later she sticks her head out from the kitchen doorway and says,

"Biscuit?"

"Uh..." What? Still being new to Ireland, I thought she was literally offering me something like a scone or a danish. In any case, I was beginning to become confused by the whole tea process.

"I couldn't possibly. I'm really only just here for a few, you know. "

"We've some bourbons.", she looked at me and smiled.

"Bourbon? Oh, thanks really. The tea is more than enough." I was hungover as it was. Or, uh, as I was...erm.

She presented herself from around the corner holding a tray heavy with 'cookies' and a few other baked goods I didn't recognize, and I had my first tea and biscuits in Ireland.

I learned to never turn down an offer of tea in Ireland; want it or not.

I ended up getting hooked on the tea - absolutely love it now and couldn't start the day without it. Especially love it with a smoke. Cheers.

Bi-Polar girlfriends are Bi-Polar

I've been busy this week. So, I am going to go ahead and be lazy and put up a story I recently posted to an Irish forum that asked if any of us had ever had a gun pointed at them...

I had a very attractive GF back in university. So hot that I looked past most of her faults. As you do, you come to realize just how insane she is as the days pass, and it eventually comes the time you decide you need to break off the relationship simply to maintain your own sanity. Until then, it's a crazy fun ride though.

So, one evening, after some particularly spirited fun up in my room, I realize I can not drag her along any more and I finally decide the insanity must end as she's preparing to head out. Usually girls breakup with me because I am the crazy one, or they realize they can do better. So, I really didn't feel as much guilt as I probably should have. In any case, she was smoking hot, so I knew she'd find someone far more attractive than me in short order. So, we get to talking and I eventually begin to say stupid stuff like, "It's not you, it's me...", when she opens up my nightstand and starts to reach in.

I had been living in Texas before I moved to Cali for College. So I had not only brought my pick-up, but also my handgun. It's just something you do as a Texan - you keep a handgun in the night stand and think nothing of it. I had never told her about it. I assume she had been poking around my room when I wasn't there. That explains the missing CD's and spare change...

Before I could even blink, she was leveling my Glock 9mm pistol at me, "What stops me from shooting you right here, right now? Is this loaded? Feels heavy...", she hissed coldly. 

I blinked. She was looking at me and the handgun in turn. Her finger was on the trigger.

"Or maybe we can just see where this relationship goes?", is all I could struggle to get out in reply.

She looked at me like she couldn't believe what I had just said. Then a look somewhere between pain, anger, and disgust came across her face. The gun shook in her hands momentarily, pointing directly at my chest. In a split second she jerked it toward her face. At just that exact moment I had preemptively resigned to leap at her and try for the gun. 

It was fortunate for us both then, as I managed to wrestle it out of her hands before she shot herself in the face. She had such a beautiful face, too. The gun was loaded and chambered. Glocks do not have a conventional safety like some other pistols, and pulling the trigger would have discharged a round. We were fortunate the gun didn't go off during the brief struggle for it.

After our bodies managed to purge the tremendous amount of adrenaline dumped into our blood streams during that brief moment, we nearly collapsed. Exhausted, she came back to her senses and apologized to me. We both apologized. 

Eventually, as time passed, we would run in to each other here and there on campus. We never mentioned the episode ever again. She is now a LinkdIn friend, and doing just fine in southern California. We exchange emails several times a year. She looks better than ever. She's still single, though... 

I no longer keep a handgun in the nightstand.

No English

When everything is done right, we never have to actually interact with modern society at all. We show up, the Gards point at a car for us to transfer, or pull out of a hedge, or building, culvert, ditch, lake, river, wall, whatever, and we're on our way. The only time I have to actually say something to someone other than a Gard is when I shout out my lorrie window at the bastard that cut me off and forced me to slam on my brakes and then row through all my gears again to get back up to speed. Man, I hate that. Please don't cut trucks off.

Oh, and occasionally I am criticized for my parking. Sorry, but one of the precious few perks working recovery for the state police is the fact I can park wherever the hell I need to.



"Seriously? You're gonna park there?", a tweed-cladded man hissed at me in disdain.

I was parked halfway up a curb again, about to head in to a news agent.

"Where on Gods green Ireland am I supposed to park a thirty foot long truck in Clondalkin Village?".

"You can park it down the street there so us folk can walk on this pathway here!" He made a few jerky motions I didn't pay much attention to. "Not on a double yellow! Can't you see this?!" He pointed down, seemingly with as much effort as he could muster.

"Oh, that's what those lines mean. Thanks for that." I'll admit I hadn't known what those lines meant before today. We don't do the double lines near a curb thing in The States. But I think we both know the effect that statement was going to have on the codger.

Before he could start again, I walked toward him a few steps, then back a few. I looked at him as he took a step backwards, glaring at me, confusion starting to slowly creep into his eyes. I took a few more steps, shrugged, and then looked vaguely in the direction he may have been indicating earlier.

"What in the -"

I cut him off with a, "Hmmm!", and stomped the tarmac a couple of times. "This sidewalk still seems to work." I gave an overemphasized nod in approval, then gave the man a thumbs up, then locked the truck with a very loud *BEEP* using the remote, then quickly went in to the news agent. I decided to deny the exchange ever happened if he called in to complain.

I just wanted a pack of Lucky Strikes. Was that too much to ask for?

Before long it was night again. I mostly work nights, and will oftentimes swap shifts. Though I am sort of a loner, I mostly like the relative peace and quiet and lack of traffic. The calls get a lot crazier, which I was OK with... mostly.

"Grangecastle? You mean the area that looks like a bomb went off, Grangecastle?", I asked Ray.

"Yep. They don't make them like they used to, though..."

I turned a tight corner and saw the spectacle I was meant to be a part of. In the middle of the street, standing slightly askew, was a new Audio S4, silver in color. Surrounding it were roughly half a dozen Gards. Another three or four of them were milling about, looking in bushes and such. I had the feeling they hadn't actually caught their man before calling me in this time. I flip the truck around and back it up to the Audi. The Gards come up to me quickly as I leave the truck.

"Hey, so. Sure, like, we've not actually caught our man before we rang you this time. So, we've a bit of a search goin' on at the moment. We've no keys for it, either. Sure, why don't ya go on and shackle the yoke up and we'll look after you, like?"

"Sure", I shrugged. I was nonplussed. It seemed unlikely some gang member was going to come at me from the bushes with so many Gards about. I quickly went about my business. The Audi was up on the bed of the rollback wrecker in no time and I was about to raise it and secure the back end of the car when I noticed someone coming at me from the bushes. I glanced around and fell in to a bit of a panic when I realized all the Gards were gone. ALL of them - gone - like fucking Ninjas.

"I'm right here, Fucker! Gimme back my fucken car or I'll fucken stab you, you fuck!", is what I thought he said, but his accent was so thick I could have been mistaken; it's also likely I've left out a 'fuck' or two. For a brief moment I thought about my revolver, but that revolver was back in Texas, and I wasn't in Texas any more.

He was in front of me now; one of the few people I had run in to in Ireland that was my own height.

"I said give me my fuck... fucken car!!!", he shouted directly in my face. The man had clearly been drinking and smoking for hours and hours. It was only by God's own grace he didn't manage to spit all over me as he barked. Between my panic and the smell of him, it was all I could do to focus. Surely the Gards are hearing this? I mean, their cars are still here. And, well, they were just fuckin' here themselves. I began to realize that I had to address this idiot before he decided to resort to violence. I couldn't greet him the Texas way - with a gun. So, I resigned to greet him the Mexican way.

I looked at him, smiled, and said,

"No English."

"Fuck!!!", He turned violently, ran over to the cab of my truck, yanked the keys from the ignition, and threw them in to the bushes, punctuating the action with a loud, "Fuck!".

This had the immediate effect of shutting down the diesel's power take-off. What the man could not have known was that the truck could not disengage the wench that was still hooked to the car's undercarriage without that PTO being operable. Without those keys, neither of us were leaving with our vehicles. This made me angry - very, very angry. I decided I needed to share this anger with Mr. Fuck.

I started towards the bastard as he climbed on to bed of my lorrie, his own keys in hand. The bed was still at enough of an angle that he likely thought he could drive it back down to street level. He had unlocked the door and just kicked a leg in when I reached him. I grasped his belt and began to pull him back with my left hand while my right hand started to come around the other side of my body in anger. This man didn't know it, but he was about to get the fucking kidney-punching of his fucking life. At least, that's what I had planned.

My arm suddenly couldn't move! I snapped my head around to see a Gard had managed to stop me hitting the man. I must have telegraphed that punch all the way from Kenosha. At the same moment I released Mr. Fuck with the other hand, the other Gards instantly jumped him. I myself was released as well. The man who had my arm joined the fray after giving me a quick nod.

So now we've got an Audi, tilted at a fairly steep angle on the back of my lorrie, with Mr. Fuck and an entourage of Gardai all pretending they are in a bar fight. A bar fight inside an Audio S4. That's a damn tight bar. I lit a cigarette.

Mr. Fuck was not making things remotely easy on the police. It was all the men could do to get the guy mostly out of his own vehicle. At one point I thought I could lean in and get a couple of pokes at the guy while he was preoccupied, but just when I had an opening, the Gards denied me once more.

*Snick snick snick!!!* At least three Gards had flicked out their expandable steel batons. I knew better than to get in the middle of things now. One Gard was pressing a baton in to the center of the man's back. It hurt just to look.

"Fuuuuuck! Fuuuuuck! All of yous! Fuck! Get off me! Fucking get off me!"

"Give it up! Get on the ground or I will hit you!"

"Fuuuuuuck! FUCK!", etc.

The Gard hit Mr. Fuck, and hit him hard. Without a functioning knee cap, Fuck collapsed to the ground. The Gards had him in handcuffs before he could roll into a little ball. Two Gards immediately collapsed onto Fuck, obviously glad that all of them were immobile. I contemplated giving the bastard a kick for throwing my keys.

"Here's your keys." I turned and one of the Gards handed me my keys.

"Wow. Thanks, man."

"Is your lorrie alright? Are you alright then?"

"Oh, yeah. He didn't touch me; truck's fine. Where the hell were you guys?"

I was told they thought they had seen someone in the darkness and went to chase. Then they heard the commotion I was in and returned. They stopped me from punching the man because they were afraid he would have retaliated, and much more violently. I couldn't help but feel that I had been used as bait. They found my keys sort of quickly, I thought.

As we walked past Mr. Fuck, he noticed us conversing even over his own swearing and pain.

"You fucking speak English!"

"And better than yourself.", said the Gard, whom with one decisive shove, stuffed Fuck into the back of a Garda van.

"Cheers" we all said, and went about on our own ways.

Is that an AK47, or are you just happy to see me?

I must admit, though I found it odd at first, the fact that most vehicles in Ireland are compacts makes the job much easier than it was in Texas. Unfortunately, it also meant that I would be completely ignorant of most of their names and types.

Qashqai? Tiida? 'ceed? Lada? Twingo? 106? Punto(not puto)? Octavia? Robin? Xantia? Avensis? Pixo? Alto? Ssangyong Kyron?

Nissan's "S-Cargo"(seriously):

None of these things do we have in the US(at least not as of this writing). So part of the time - no wait - most of the time during the first few weeks when I am told to transfer a certain model from a Garda impound lot, I have no freakin' clue WTF I am looking for.

"It's a Nissan Note", Tony tells me over the radio.

"Are you trying to say 'North'?" I politely reply.

"No! It's not me accent, you poxy fucken Yank. It's a NOTE. As in 'a note' of, er, something..."

"You're using 'a note' as an example of what a Note is? That's what you did just then. You know that, right?" I sarcastically replied.

"I note what I did. Now go get the car!". Well, at least I note it was a car I was looking for.

Moments later I am in Sundrive Garda Station in Crumlin. Like many stations in Dublin proper, it's quite crowded with nowhere to really park. So, I put the truck on the curb halfway and hop out on to the pavement to be confronted by an elderly woman directly.

"Yous are really gonna just park it right here, then? Roight in the middle of the path, are yous?"

"Uh...er..I, uh, can't fit the ENTIRE truck on the path. So, uh, yeah. Here she sits." I proudly replied. She obviously wasn't impressed, and walked around the truck shaking her head,

"Fuckin yanks..."

Have I mentioned that I am a Southerner? So I feel a slight tinge of pain every time someone in Europe calls me a 'Yank'. Just saying...

The Garda station was a tight squeeze, and on this evening there were four people ahead of me waiting at the window. That's about two more than the station could hold. So, I have to wait halfway out the door. It's just as well, the man at the window is shouting at the Gard all manner of abuse that I was really in no mood to deal with. After a few minutes, I take a few steps back towards the sidewalk and light a cigarette. It was just what I needed. The noise and rough ride of the recovery vehicle can take it's toll on you. Add in shouting Irishmen in tight spaces, and I needed the break.

"Fock! Yous are still here, are yous?" The elderly woman was back, her hands grasping bags full of goods she apparently just obtained from the Spar around the corner. She waved one bag at me as if to prove it was from 'Spar', and motioned towards the truck with the other,

"I see the lorrie is still there, so. Yes. Of course it's still there!", She shouted as she stepped around it, shaking her head. I was surprised she didn't spit on it.

All four of the men inside the station step past me at that moment. Why couldn't they have been done just thirty seconds sooner? I walked up to the window.

"I'm here for ah..uh.." I forgot what the hell I was there for. That old woman wiped my memory somehow.

"Is it a Nissan Note, are you lookin' fer?" The Gard spoke. He could see by my jacket I was with the recovery service.

"If you say so."

He handed me the keys and said, "She's been gone over fairly well, so she's all yours.", which basically means it's not to be held for later pick-up or impounded, all the evidence is out of it, and generally is ready to go and be recycled. It's not a great policy, but chances are the car wasn't registered right, or it was owned by a gang member, or maybe the Gards just didn't like the owner.

All the cars were back up to the rear wall of the yard, and within inches, too. There was no room in the Garda lot, which is why we take them to a central impound location, after all. There was no remote on the key fob, so I had to stick my head around the ass end of every car to see which one was a Note. Par for the course.

Eventually I am back at the impound lot with the Note. There are no other calls, so I am hanging out at the recycling shed where the vehicles are emptied of all their fluids and then moved to the crusher. There's a pretty cool, if stoic and quiet, Polish guy that runs the recycling shed. Next to him was an annoying Lithuanian guy whom all of us at work called "The Russian".

The Pol has me put the Note on the lift so he can raise it up and drain it's fluids. Russian is standing across from me, speaking Polish to the Pol. I light up a Lucky. It all sounds like Russian to me.

"You know you should not smoke in here...", Russian says as he raises an eyebrow at me.

I glare at him, made as though I was about to say something, then simply continued smoking. Russian frowned and went back to speaking Polish again. The Pol simply grunted in response.

Suddenly there was a metallic crashing noise that echoed throughout the garage, and we all jerked to attention. Something had fallen out from underneath the Note onto the concrete floor.

All three of us move over to it, crouching so as not to hit our heads on the undercarriage.

"Oh my God", the Russian said in perfect English...for once. I couldn't understand whatever it was the Pol said.

"Don't even try to act surprised - like you've never seen such a thing!", I exclaimed to Russian. "Those have got to be growing underneath every rock in Russia."

I knelt down to see, under the dirt and the mud and maybe some blood, was an AK-47 laying on the concrete floor before us.

"Don't touch it.", Russian whispered.

"Der, ya think? I'll tell Tony and he can call the Gards to see if they maybe want it back."

"Gards don't want it back", Tony tells us over the radio. "But they seem to be keen on coming for a look."

"No shit?", I say, looking at the rifle before me, one hand on a cig, the other on the radio.

"Also, they say for none of you to leave. They want to ask questions".

"Lovely.", I exhaled. Only in Ireland would three unarmed foreign nationals be asked to guard a machine gun. I lit another cigarette.

'WYK, why are these posts all out of order and stuff?'

When I was working for the Gardai back during the Celtic Tiger, I was admonished not to speak about work to anyone outside of work. This also had the unfortunate side-effect of me not having as many photos as I would like from that time as well. Most photos I could only take when heads were turned or  when I was alone. Sometimes the weather or darkness was simply too much for any successful photography. At one point my camera had been confiscated. Other times I had to lend it out so the Gardai could copy the images for their own uses as well. I was stunned that very few Gards had their own digital camera aside from their mobile phone.

Well, eventually I noticed my brain was starting to leak as it filled up with information. So, I decided to write everything down before it all went down the drain, and it all is going to culminate in this blog. I'm just gettin' started.

Pretend this post came before the last

Welcome back to October.

-This is Ireland-

I'm still relatively new, so they are giving me a lot of the very mundane work and sending me out to all corners of Dublin to get me familiar with the city and the traffic.

It wasn't too long before I started to notice something odd. There was smoke, lots and lots of smoke. And it was everywhere. Every road I was on, every street I turned, there was smoke.

"What the hell is going on?", I radio in to dispatch.

"Sorry?!" Ray came back with a combination of confusion and impatience.

"Why are there fires everywhere?"

"Saw-Wayne...It's Saw Wayne.", Ray repeated over the radio.

Saw Wayne? What the hell is 'Saw Wayne'? Ray didn't sound like he wanted to be bothered, so I went about my business. It wasn't long until I came upon several sights such as these:

These sights eventually culminated into these:

So, now it's nearly 4 in the morning, and the constant influx of charred, burnt out husks that were once automobiles the day before has started to slow to a trickle, and Ray and I are standing in front of the carnage enjoying a smoke break. Well, truth be told we had to smoke to cover the smell of lingering car death or else the toxic fumes coming off the BBQ'd vehicles, the lot nearly packed to capacity, would've made it impossible to spend any time near them at all. 

We stood there silently for a bit, listening to the rain slowly plop down upon the smoldering carriages. Occasionally you'd hear some metal settling with a sudden pop. The cars were also enjoying a bit of a smoke as well.

"What the hell is going on?", I turned to Ray.

"Saw WAYNE. Holloween... Uh.. Bon Fires...every time this year, bon fires everywhere. ", Ray lit another smoke.

"Oh! Samhain! Ah... I thought it was pronounced differently." I'm such an idiot. "Every year, just like this? Every year?", I added.

"Every year.", Ray stared at the cars blankly.

"This is crazy", I said as I began to chain-smoke another Lucky.

Ray breathed out and gave me a sideways glance,

"This is Ireland"

Cocaine and probably Heroin

Since we basically work for the Gards, we spend a lot of time recovering stolen vehicles and vehicles used in crimes. Many of these vehicles belong to drug dealers and gang members. The following are a small sample of what I've seen thus far.

It's mid day and I am being called out to the north side of Dublin by the Gardai. This is a fairly rare occurance since we are based on the opposite side of Dublin. It also means the situation is serious since the only reason I am here is to take it to the most secure impound lot at the time, which was in West Dublin. The sun was out, and even though it was a very cool November morning, it was a beautiful day.

I arrived to see 2 marked police cars and 4 armed Gardai - another rarity. The general police(Gardai) in Ireland are not armed. Only the special response units are.

"Can ya get this yoke out, so?", their leader asked me as I climbed down from the truck.

The van he motioned towards was parallel parked against a wall, blocked off front and back very closely by other vehicles. I had it out in minutes. This was also one of the rare occasions where the police gave me an escort back to the impound. The van was heavy. Obviously loaded down with a lot of cargo. Once back at the impound, I took one of my recovery tools, broke the lock on the rear door to the van, and saluted the Gardai and was about to return to my truck as I had several more calls lined up already.

"You're not curious what's inside of it?" I was asked by another Gard.

"I see a lot of vans and a lot of crazy stuff working with you guys. I'll take a gander at it when I return".

The Gard chuckled in amusement and opened the door as I turned away.

I spent the day filled with mundane tasks and recoveries, transferring a few cars from police stations to impound lots, etc. Shortly after dinner time I get a call from dispatch telling me the Gards need me urgently in some godforsaken field out in the middle of nowhere; which is to say the Bohernabreena road. I scarf down my stale Esso special breakfast roll and head out into the dark Irish night to find this:

Seems the Gards were a little too aggressive while chasing one of their boy-racer suspects. There it sits where I dropped it off at Clondalkin Station after having dragged it out of the ditch it had been wedged in to earlier that evening. The Gard got too close to his target, so when the kid slammed on his brakes, they both came together. However, instead of the police car taking damage as the kid had hoped, it turned out the fleeing motorist ended up performing a PIT maneuver on himself, sending both cars into a large culvert. No one was injured, and both cars look to be write-offs.

Being a Monday, it slowed down drastically as the evening went on. I was off in an hour, so I headed back to base as I know the dispatchers, if possible, will give you a call closer to home near the end of shift. Good lads they are. As I pull in to the impound I see quite a gathering of various official vehicles and questioned the dispatch on the radio what the hell happened.

"You're the one brought that van in! You should know!" is all I got back.

So I put the air brake on and hop out of the cab, lit a smoke, and headed around the corner towards the secure impound facility. There were no less than twenty official-looking individuals milling about, nearly silhouetted by the glow of the construction lights they've added to the usual impound lot lighting. Some have big professional-looking cameras, some with bunny suits on, and many with guns.

"HEY! You're back! Come have a look, then!" shouted a familiar Gard. So I walk past the wall of humans to see a wall of large evidence bags. These are about twice the size of your average paper grocery bag, and there were probably 30 of them all laid about on a big white tarp. In the middle of that tarp was a large mound of plastic-wrapped, brick-like objects.

"Cocaine and probably heroin...", the Gard nodded.

"And a LOT of weed by the smell off of those bags...", I said. The Gard nodded again and spoke very seriously, "We were hoping to catch the man hisself, but we just couldn't let this van sit any longer. We're still finding bits here and there hidden away inside the interior paneling. As she sits, that's easily a few million Euro right there."

I offered him a smoke, and he took it. I noticed Gordon step out from the office. The sight and smell of all that pot must have been driving him mad. I walked over to him, gave him a smoke, and said, "Looks like prices are about to go up some..." Gordon sighed.