The Shelbourne Feast

The Shelbourne Feast

That evening, the crew arrived at The Shelbourne Hotel in Dublin, stepping out of blacked-out Mercedes vans like royalty. Mr. Salty Dawg led the procession, flanked by his Angels in tight cocktail dresses shimmering under the lobby chandeliers. Imran the Bartender walked proudly beside Ingrid, her petite Norwegian frame clinging to his muscular arm. Large Lad waddled behind them, belly wobbling beneath his XXL sports blazer, sweat dripping down his temples from the mere act of walking.

The maître d’ greeted Salty with a bow. “Welcome back, Mr. Dawg. Your private dining room is ready.”

Inside, the table was laid with silver cutlery, crystal glasses, and pristine linen napkins folded into swans. Champagne bottles sweated in ice buckets at each end. Outside, Dublin bustled in the cool evening air, taxis honking and crowds thronging Grafton Street.

Salty raised his glass. “To Ireland, lads and ladies. To living wild and dying with stories.”

“Here here!” Imran roared, slamming back his whiskey in one gulp.

Ingrid giggled, eyes glazed with lust as she nuzzled his neck. Large Lad lifted his pint of Guinness, foam sticking to his lip as he downed half in a single gulp. “God, I’ve missed proper stout.”

They feasted on oysters, lobster thermidor, dry-aged steaks, and mountains of buttered mash. The Angels clinked glasses and laughed sweetly, each one leaning close to Salty, whispering in his ear, giggling at his low replies.

Iron Maiden’s “The Trooper” blared softly from Salty’s phone speaker in his breast pocket as he carved into his steak, eyes glittering under his gold aviators despite the dim candlelight.

By dessert, Large Lad’s stomach was swollen tight beneath the table. His belt dug painfully into his hips as he forced down mouthfuls of Baileys cheesecake, washing it down with Jameson on the rocks.

Imran leaned back, lighting a cigarette right there at the table. The waiter opened his mouth to protest but one glare from Salty silenced him instantly.

Ingrid traced circles on Imran’s broad chest with her fingertip, her pale cheeks flushed pink with dessert wine and desire.

Salty smiled at them all – his motley crew of drunks, lovers, and legends.

“Tomorrow,” he said, wiping his mouth with a linen napkin, “we take the chopper to Cork. There’s a private castle, 300 acres, and a gathering of Ireland’s richest for a charity gala. And we’ll be there… to drink their drink, dance their floors, and leave them with stories they’ll never forget.”

Large Lad groaned, clutching his aching belly. “Another day… another drink…”

Salty clapped him on the back, nearly sending him face-first into his cheesecake. “That’s the spirit, lad.”