Return to the Emerald Isle

 

Return to the Emerald Isle

After a week of yacht parties, private jet flights, beach barbecues, and hotel suite debauchery across South Africa, it was time to return home.

Mr. Salty Dawg leaned back in his leather recliner aboard Salty Dawg One, sipping a glass of 30-year-old Jameson, staring out at the Atlantic clouds drifting beneath the wings.

Beside him sat Large Lad, wearing oversized aviators to hide his bloodshot eyes. His belly protruded like a beer barrel under his rumpled Hawaiian shirt. Mia, one of Salty’s Angels, snoozed with her head on his arm, her blonde hair tickling his cheek with each gentle exhale.

Across the cabin sat Imran the Bartender, flown in from Africa at Salty’s personal invitation. He wore his signature ragged tank top, flip-flops, and a gold chain gifted by Salty himself. His dark eyes glittered as he stared at the drink in his hand.

“This Jameson… is the smoothest thing I’ve ever tasted,” Imran said with a grin, swirling the amber liquid.

Salty chuckled deeply. “Wait till you taste my Dublin reserve, brother.”

On Imran’s lap sat Ingrid, wearing grey tracksuit bottoms and a tiny crop top, blonde hair in a loose plait, cheeks glowing with youthful lust and exhaustion. She snuggled into him, eyes closed in peaceful bliss, having spent the last week experiencing pleasures no Scandinavian boy had ever provided.

Large Lad glanced at her, a flicker of envy in his foggy eyes. “I still don’t get it,” he muttered.

Salty clapped him on the back so hard his sunglasses nearly flew off. “That’s why you’re Large Lad and he’s Imran the Plougher!” he roared with laughter.

Meanwhile, the Angels milled about the cabin, tidying glasses, wiping tables, and serving fresh Irish coffees as the flight entered European airspace. Iron Maiden’s “Fear of the Dark” played softly over the speakers, the galloping bass a soothing lullaby after the past week’s madness.

As the coast of Ireland appeared beneath them, rolling emerald fields and grey stone walls glinting in the pale afternoon sun, Salty stood up, glass raised high.

“To Ireland! To home! And to living like gods wherever we go!”

“Here here!” Large Lad slurred, lifting his glass weakly.

Ingrid giggled sleepily. Imran just grinned, his rough thumb brushing her jaw as she pressed closer into his chest.

Salty smirked, lowering his shades to gaze around at his assembled crew. “Tonight we dine at The Shelbourne. Tomorrow we hunt for new adventures. Because remember lads – life’s too short to live small.”

The jet engines roared as Salty Dawg One descended smoothly into Dublin Airport. Down below, taxi ranks bustled, buses queued, and passengers trudged in from Ryanair flights, unaware that overhead, legends and angels were returning to Irish soil.

Because wherever Mr. Salty Dawg went, stories were born, livers were destroyed, and ordinary men like Large Lad got to live like kings – even if just for a week.

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