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 roa...