The Adventures of McFinleyyy
Chapter 3: When Salty Fell from the Sky
The train screeched into Pearse Station, and just when the lads thought the night couldn’t get any more ridiculous, the unthinkable happened.
A shadow loomed over the platform. Then another. And then, like a scene from a budget Mission: Impossible, two parachutes drifted down against the orange Dublin sunset.
The first was Sgt. Salty. The second? Quags, his eternal sidekick and supplier of questionable life advice.
The Grand Entrance
The train doors hissed open. People streamed out, muttering about delayed connections and broken air conditioning. But McFinleyyy and the lads had eyes only for the parachutes landing right beside the platform hot-dog stand.
Sgt. Salty touched down like a man born for drama, boots crunching against concrete, aviators still perfectly in place. Quags, meanwhile, landed less gracefully—straight into a bin full of empty crisp packets.
“You made it, Salty!” McFinleyyy shouted from the carriage doorway, grinning like he’d known all along.
“I always make it,” Salty growled, adjusting his jacket. “And I brought Quags. The city isn’t ready for us.”
The lads erupted in laughter. Even Ye Olde Large Lad, who usually reserved his energy for kebabs, was doubled over.
Reinforcements Arrive
But that wasn’t all. Because behind them, almost casually, strolled two women the lads had met in The Cork Cocktail Caper—Sarah and Susan.
Sarah, tall and sassy, with an eye-roll sharp enough to cut steel. Susan, the quieter one with the smile that could derail an entire night’s plans.
“Thought you boys could use some supervision,” Sarah smirked, sliding onto the train.
“Supervision?” Winky winked. “I’d call it motivation.”
Back to the Train Chaos 🚆
The train jolted forward again, heading toward Connolly. With the squad now reinforced—Salty, Quags, Sarah, Susan—the carriage descended into absolute carnage.
Whizzair was running commentary like it was Sky Sports. Ye Olde Large Lad had somehow acquired a tray of sausage rolls. Winky was already trying (and failing) to impress Sarah.
But McFinleyyy? His eyes were still on the woman the lads swore was Alicia Silverstone.
Sgt. Salty’s Advice
Salty noticed. Of course he did. Nothing got past him.
He leaned over, muttering in that gravelly, half-action-hero, half-pub-philosopher voice.
“McFinleyyy, listen carefully. You want to seal this? Easy. Drop a line from her film. Or better yet—do her voice.”
McFinleyyy raised an eyebrow. “Her film?”
Salty smirked. “Clueless. 1995. She’ll love it. Trust me. Just hit her with: ‘As if!’”
Quags nearly spat out his drink. “Imagine his sexy man voice trying to do Alicia Silverstone.”
The lads howled. Winky slapped the table. Even Sarah and Susan leaned in, eager to see the chaos unfold.
The Attempt
McFinleyyy, ever the showman, straightened up, ran a hand through his hair, and strolled casually down the aisle. He stopped at Alicia-or-Not-Alicia’s seat. She looked up, lowering her sunglasses again.
“Hey,” he began smoothly. “Crazy night, huh?”
She gave a polite nod. “Something like that.”
And then he did it. In the most over-the-top valley girl impression he could muster, McFinleyyy tilted his head, flicked imaginary hair, and declared:
“Ugh, as if!”
The carriage went silent for one glorious beat. Then it exploded.
The lads lost it. Whizzair was on the floor. Ye Olde Large Lad almost choked on his sausage roll. Sgt. Salty laughed so hard his aviators fogged up.
And Alicia-or-Not-Alicia? She actually giggled. Full, genuine, hand-to-her-mouth giggle.
“Well played,” she said, smirking. “I haven’t heard that in years.”
McFinleyyy winked. “Stick with me. We’re bringing the 90s back tonight.”
Dublin Beckons
By the time the train rolled into Connolly, the squad was buzzing. Energy levels? Maximum. Drinks flowing? Absolutely. Chaos potential? Off the charts.
McFinleyyy had done it—broken the ice with Hollywood (or at least her doppelgänger), while Sgt. Salty reminded everyone why he was the legend they never deserved.
The doors opened. The city awaited. And somewhere out there, Dublin’s bars and dancefloors had no idea what was about to hit them.
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Closing Hook
As they spilled onto the platform, Sgt. Salty pointed to the skyline.
“Tonight, gentlemen and ladies… Dublin is ours.”
The squad roared in approval, ready for whatever madness the city was about to throw at them.
But none of them—not even McFinleyyy—could have predicted what was waiting at the first pub.
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