“Ah, you again? So, it’ll be the usual, will it?”

Huh. Okay, then.

Walking up to the bar, I try to place the barkeep’s face somewhere in my memory. I give that up right quick as soon as I realize how much effort it’s taking.

“Why are you asking me questions before I’ve even said a word?”

“You think I don’t know you well enough by now? Killian Walsh.”

So, he remembers my name. I don’t know if that’s a good or a bad thing.

It’s only been a hundred days—that’s what it says on my chip at least.

The chip I’ve been moving up and down the fingers of my left hand from the moment I walked through the doors of the local pub.

Okay—I’ve been holding it all day. Since early this morning.

For fuck’s sake, I’ve almost earned a 101-day-chip at this fucking point.

“Pint of Guinness, Mr. Walsh? I’m right about that, aren’t I?”

No, I don’t think I’ve ever seen him before. My memory’s not that far gone yet.

Or maybe it fucking is at this point.

Hopefully not, because I’ve got a fucking novel to write. The ink’s still drying on the contract.

A hundred thousand fucking words—and that’s a minimum.

Look, that shouldn’t be a problem for me. And I’m not too bothered even if it turns out to be.

Either way, the advance check is already locked safely in the fortress of the local Bank of Ireland branch, a few kilometers down the road. It should be clearing well before I get that first nagging phone call from the publishing house.

“So, that’ll be a pint of Guinness, will it?”

This young fellow’s being rather insistent, isn’t he?

“Are you expecting a big rush or something? You seem to be in one.”

I flash a little bit of that famously charming fucking smile to show that I’m just taking the piss.

Seems like all I do these days is take the fucking piss, but this fellow doesn’t seem even a wee bit offended.

“Seriously, though—what I’m craving is that Tall Blonde in the Black Dress.”

A flicker of recognition fizzles through the bartender’s face.

“I haven’t heard anybody call it that in a while.”

“Just how long could a while be in your young life?” I query, stepping around the stool in front of me and resting my weary duff for the duration of the celebration.

The pre-novel writing celebration that lies ahead of me, that is.

“Long enough to read two or three of your books, Mr. Walsh.”

Of fucking course—another fan. Another young fellow who connected with my own typewritten angst, writ large across several internationally bestselling tomes—and yes, that includes the list in the New York Fucking Times.

It’s not like any of them came out too long ago. Maybe I’m just shaking off the last of that youthful angst myself.

Maybe I’m still in the thick of it without knowing.

Fuck, I shouldn’t be taking fucking notes, shouldn’t I?

“Blonde in the Black Dress,” the barkeep says. “Coming right up, Mr. Walsh.”

“Call me…Killian.” I like saying my name like that. On a few rare fucking occasions such as this one, anyway. “And I’ll call you…”

“Rowan.”

“No kidding. Well, Rowan, to answer your question…” I’m still running that chip through my fingers under the bar. “What was your question again?”

“Never mind that, Mr. Killian.” Rowan’s focused on trying to pull the perfect pint, trying to impress, well, one of the more famous authors to emerge from this tiny village—or hamlet—or whatever the fuck you want to call it, in the middle of the sparsest yet greenest county here on the island of Eire.

“Blonde in the Black Dress,” Rowan announces, placing a fresh pint on the little cardboard coaster in front of me.

Would you believe that the coasters in this place are fucking blank? I don’t even know where they get them. You think those promotional ones would come free from Guinness or from fucking Killian’s Irish Red or, I don’t know, one of those fucking whiskies or something.

You gotta love this fucking pub, though, with these blank, dark red little circles of cardboard to protect the ancient, dusty wooden bar from our glasses sweating the nectar of life.

Trying to forego the pretense of having anything to fucking hide, I hold up my hundred-day Alcoholics Anonymous chip. It’s partially a show for Rowan, but he’s not even watching me. He’s busy chatting up some crowd of fleece-wearing tourists at the other end of the bar.

“That’s probably for the best,” I say to myself, letting go of the small, bronze coin and watching it sink into the pint of lager.

My sponsor told me that these chips are some of the rarest sobriety chips that you can find. A hundred days now—you wouldn’t think it’d be that fucking rare.

He’s splitting town for a while, anyway. I hope he’s okay, wherever he is by now. A day can carry you a long way sometimes.

Now as for me, I’m happy to let the chip fall where it may—right into the Blonde in the Black Dress.

If any of you out there are worried about sanitation issues, I’m convinced that this stuff could kill the bubonic fucking plague if it wanted.

With just a few wee nips, it’s already starting to kill that coiled up tension and anxiety that’s loved to do nothing more than eat away at my fucking gut for the past three fucking months.

Speaking of wee nips, there’s a sudden stiff wind nipping at my back as more townsfolk of various fucking kinds are filing into the pub.

I can hear them but not see them. It’s a sonic blur of laughter, loud voices, people excited to be going out on the drink.

All I need is another few sips of stout. Then another few.

There’s a point I lose track of my rare, bronze AA coin. That point comes early enough in the evening.

The point where I can judge what point I’m at in the evening comes and goes with some swift fucking speed, too.

“Pint of Guinness, Mr. Killian? Lady in the Blonde Dress?”

“Are you drinking tonight, Rowan? You just used the words blonde dress as if that’s a normal thing for a human to be doing.”

“It’s a busy night, Mr. Killian.”

“Just call me Killian.”

“Would you like a shot of whiskey to go with your next black-blonde dress stout in a pint glass, then?”

“What’s the well whiskey here, Rowan?”

“Ah, you should know Mr...You should know, Killian. My stars, it feels strange calling such a figure as yourself by just your first name, sir.”

“Is it Jameson?”

“Of course it is, Killian...sir.”

“Then I’ll have to say thanks but no thanks. Just keep the Guinness flowing, if you don’t mind.”

The Guinness stops flowing at some point, but only because I choose for it to stop. There’s no rhyme or reason to it. Most likely, I just make an executive fucking decision, which I can’t even fucking remember.

Another such executive decision I make is to find my way to the coat rack and slow dance with it to a Pogues song playing on yonder jukebox.

Another such executive decision is to sit at a table with that group of fleece-wearing tourists and let them buy me stew from the kitchen while asking me repeatedly when my next fucking book is due on store shelves.

Then, sometime before closing, the Guinness starts flowing again.

It’s probably the best executive decision I’ve made all night. A few more heavy pints to send me on my way.

“Are you sure you won’t be having a shot of Jameson to go along with your last Blonde Lady, good sir Killian?”

“You know, that nickname I don’t mind, Rowan. But for feck’s sake I can’t be drinking any shots of that whiskey tonight or ever. I’m not enamored with taking that tone, but please stop mentioning that word that starts with the tenth letter of the basic Latin bloody alphabet.”

“No problems at all, Mr. Killian.”

Maybe I made the next executive decision, or it could’ve been some other entity, but after some length of time, every patron in the pub is joined in a song, belting at the top of our lungs.

Beauing, belling, dancing, drinking,

Breaking windows, cursing, sinking,

Every raking, never thinking,

Live the Rakes of Mallow.

That collection of loud, boozy voices soon becomes just my own solitary voice, singing the same song, wandering through the quiet night air along the side of the road connecting the heart of the village with my little cottage.

Living short but merry lives,

Going where the devil drives,

Having sweethearts, but no wives,

Live the rakes of Mallow.

I’m not even sure if I’m getting the fucking melody right anymore.