The Govna and Dannyboy chapter 2
Chapter 2
Leading the charge was Sarah, sporting a red-and-white Polish football scarf wrapped three times around her neck, a fanny pack slung across her chest, and a laminated guide titled 100 Polish Phrases to Make Friends Fast. Right behind her came Susan, whose idea of international travel attire was a leather jacket, fishnets, and bright orange hair that looked like a minor electrical fire. Sgt. Salty brought up the rear, wearing a flashing neon flat cap he’d bought at the airport and holding a giant tourist map covered in red sharpie arrows.
“Govna! Dannyboy!” Sarah beamed, dropping a heavy tote bag onto the marble coffee table with a resounding thud. “We heard you two were doing ‘diplomatic outreach’ without us, so we caught the early flight from Dublin to supervise.”
Dannyboy almost choked on his espresso. “Supervise? Sarah, we were conducting delicate, high-level cultural assessments.”
“Right,” Susan scoffed, leaning over and snagging a pastry from the Govna’s plate. “We saw the pictures. You two looked like you were auditioning for a James Bond film where the villain’s secret weapon is a vintage bottle of rye.”
“Now then, ladies,” the Govna said, straightening his tie with dignified restraint. “We are guests in a historic European capital. Elegance and discretion are paramount
“Which is why,” Sgt. Salty interrupted, slamming his neon cap onto the table, “we’ve organized the ultimate Krakow Pub Crawl! Twelve stops, five vodka tastings, and a pierogi eating contest at midnight!”
The Govna closed his eyes for a long, silent three seconds. “Twelve?”
Stop 1: The "Quiet" Vodka Bar
The crawl began at a cellar bar off the Main Square. What was supposed to be a civilized tasting of Poland’s finest spirits quickly devolved when Sarah decided to put her phrasebook to the test.
“Przepraszam!” Sarah declared loudly to the bewildered bartender, holding up three fingers. “Trzy wódki, proszę! And make it the strong stuff—my friend here is in training!” She jabbed a finger toward Dannyboy, who was currently trying to pin a ribbon that read Gentleman-in-Training onto his lapel without pricking himself.
“I am not in training, Sarah,” Dannyboy protested, wincing as the pin went through his finger instead of his suit. “I am a seasoned international operative.”
“You’re wearing a rosette, Dannyboy,” Susan pointed out, taking a photo on her phone. “You look like a winning pony at the Chelsea Flower Show.”
Meanwhile, Sgt. Salty was studying a chalkboard menu that listed a "Blotnik Challenge". “Govna, look at line seven. I don’t know what a Blotnik is, but if we order six, I reckon we get a free souvenir glass.”
“Salty,” the Govna sighed, nursing his tiny tasting glass with the precision of a sommelier, “we are here to sample the local craft, not clear out the cellar.”
Stop 4: The Velvet Lounge (Take Two)
By 4:00 PM, the group had made its way back to one of the high-end lounges the Govna and Dannyboy had scouted the night before.
The doorman stared at Sgt. Salty’s flashing hat, then at Susan’s boots, and finally at Sarah, who was currently trying to explain the rules of Gaelic football to a statue in the foyer.
“Ah,” the Govna said smoothly, stepping forward and placing a heavy 20-zloty coin into the doorman’s palm. “Diplomatic party. They’re with me.”
Inside, the atmosphere shifted instantly. While the Govna tried to maintain the illusion of high society by ordering a single bottle of Belvedere to the table, Susan immediately commandeered the grand piano in the corner. Within minutes, she wasn't playing Chopin—she was blasting out a high-tempo jazz rendition of a classic pub song, prompting half the bar patrons to clap along.
“See?” Susan shouted over the piano, grinning broadly. “Cultured!”
Sarah sat at the center table, a tiny souvenir Statue of Liberty she’d somehow acquired placed proudly next to the vodka bottle. She unfolded the city map, covering most of the polished mahogany surface.
“Okay, team,” Sarah announced, tapping a pink fluffy pen against the paper. “We’ve hit Krakow’s finest establishments. Next up: a subterranean microbrewery in Kazimierz, followed by a late-night street food stand for zapiekanki!”
Dannyboy looked at the Govna, whose immaculate waistcoat was now slightly askew and whose cigar sat unlit in an ashtray.
“Well, Govna,” Dannyboy chuckled, clinking his glass against his boss’s. “It’s not quite the quiet diplomatic mission we planned... but you have to admit, the crew brings a certain energy.”
The Govna looked around the room—at Susan on the piano, Salty arguing about football with a Polish baron at the bar, and Sarah color-coding their route for the rest of the night.
Slowly, a small, subtle smirk appeared on the Govna’s face. He raised his glass.
“To international relations, Dannyboy,” the Govna said softly. “May the local establishments forgive us.”
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