[h1]Ireland[/h1]
[h2]Dublin[/h2]

The early morning sun rose over the rooftops of downtown Dublin, painting the roofs and valleys of streets in a waking warm light through breaks in a depressing gray gloom of mid-winter's clouds. Leaning against his wall, Christy looked down out at the city sipping at warm coffee from a battered mug. The image of Donald Duck frowned woefully at the outside as the paint of his image slowly cracked and peeled back. There would be a moment of personal collection before he turned to head to the offices. Though, that realistically wasn't until the mid-afternoon.

With a grumbling sigh he left the wall and walked to the fridge in the corner by the windows. He threw open the door and rummaged through the contained chaos of expired or near-expired foodstuffs for a fresh carton of milk. He was moving to the cornflakes when his phone rang.

In the morning grumpiness he was ready to let it ring on. But the high-strung shrill scream of his ring tone was corrosive to his patience and he dropped what he was doing on the counter by the time he brought a pale green bowl down onto the scratched, grime-covered counter top. Fishing his phone from the unwashed depths of untended pockets he brushed his fingers across the screen and brought it to life. The screen read 'Brian'.

Saying deeply to himself he pushed aside his annoyance and filed it away for some back part of his mind as he took the call, “Hey myate, what's the craic.” he answered.

“Hey mate, what's happening?” Brian said through the phone. His voice chipper and clear. Resting the phone against his shoulder Christy went about pouring his morning cereal.

“Grand.” Christy mumbled, “Why are you calling, it's bloody seven in the morning.”

“Because I know you're a morning person and I saw something that would interest you.”

Christy grunted indifferently as he threw aside an empty box of cornflakes, starring down at what was really a bowl of milk. “Well what is it?” he asked agitated.

“It's from the ol' Traveler community.” Brian reported, “Apperantly some new bloke heard of your so-called title.” The King of the Travelers.

“You sure?” he asked.

“Yea, I'll send you the video. Hold on.” Brian said. He went silent before a soft chirp summoned Christy's attention to something new. Pulling the phone down from his head he looked down to notice a text message. A link. He poked the link and leaned against the counter as he drank his bowl of tepid milk as the page loaded.

As the spinning circle died he was greeted immediately to the finest of Irish society standing in a tank-top in the middle of a muddy, snowy bog surrounded by caravans. His body thick as a bear, and primitive face only as attractive as a brick was a piece of art.

“Treesis fer you fukkin' Christtree o' Donegael you fukkin bahstad. You jhunkey bass-stahrd. Fukkin' gaelin' yerself da kin'o da people. Well dat'ah juhnkey juhnkey way'a call year'elf.” the man began to boast loudly. Flexing his arms hulkishly as he stomped about the lot with cross-eyed fire in his eyes. The camera followed him loosely, swerving and shaking as it struggled to keep the fine example of culture just right of the center, almost as if the camera man were more interested in the snowy ground behind him.

“Wheel jah aye jew-keys bahatahd ya ear. So jah cum and fukkin' fight me ya fool so jamaican meke ya sum fool yer ear. So cum'on dun and lemme feet.”

The video ended as suddenly as it began, leaving Christie wondering what he had lost in those moments he had spent watching it. He continued the call with his friend with the precision of an apathetic librarian, “He's a piece of work.” he commented.

“He is.” Brian confirmed, “But you know these types. If they think you offended them and you don't answer they'll just get louder. Do you really need to be Joe Joyce?”

“No, I don't.” Christy moaned, “Listen, I'll go down there and shut him up. I don't want this to escalate. How many have seen the video?”

“About a couple hundred hits in twelve hours.” Brian confirmed.

“Right, I'mma go get this done and shut the. So mate, bye, bye. Bye.” he pulled the phone from his face and hung up. Slipping the phone back into his pocket he downed the rest of the milk in a gulp and headed for the door.

[h2]South of Dublin[/h2]

Christy's car pulled up to along the road side, into a plowed dirt patch at the mouth of a caravan park. The cold air was quick to greet him as he stepped out and closed the door behind him. Wrapping his winter coat tighter about himself, Chrisy made for the park.

Clustered with ramshackle caravans the park was nothing of important note. Gaudy flamingos decorated the rented lawn space and shared space with plastic picnic tables. A few burn barrels smoldered in the winter chill and more than a few bully dogs stood chained in the cold as they watched the intruder walk through the camp underneath brows as heavy-set and primitive as their own masters. Here was a look into a life in the apocalypse, a possibility of life in wind star caravans and thirty-year old trucks should the worlds great powers ever go nuclear.

Never mind atomic wastelands, the real world could end to the smell like piss, shit, and cheap whiskey. But in a strange fashion it was his world. The world he had claimed after a drunken bar crawl. And despite his apathy and disdain for the socially disconnected Travelers and Gypsies of Ireland he was all the same here to maintain the title he had simultaneously created and won.

And at the center of the camp stood the champion that decided he would oppose him. Clearly kicked out of something and half naked and hungover. Sitting at a bench alongside a fire with five other older men as he nursed a bottle of vodka is giant sausage hands. His shoes splashing to a stop meters away he looked up and saw Christy. At first there was nothing, then the blank stupidity was blown away by a sudden morning dawning.

“Jew!” he shouted, standing to his feet. “Jewda won jamaican dey lays!” he shouted.

“Top of the morning to you.” Christy greeted.

Looking at his company he noted several were long-term residents of the present camp. And at least one was one of the respected elders. The two eyes met, and they regarded each other with polite nods.

“O'Donegill.” the old man said.

“Longfurd.” Christy replied.

“Oi, glisten air yer bahstahd. We nun gown dalek!” the challenger shouted.

“I know I would rather.” Christy responded dryly. Unwrapping his hands from his coat. He wrung his knuckles together and sighed.

“Oi ya budder.” the challenger boasted, holding up his fists he snarled and spat, “Eye lettuce 'um 'balk fer me.” he crooned, showing off knuckles scarred deep by years of boxing no doubt. Or beating his wife. Christie decided to go for the later.

“I don't fight blokes who have fists softened on women.”

“Oui, yew fuggin' say hoot ya bloody cod?”

“Uh-huh.” Christy nodded, steeped in total apathy.

“Smeer on me mum m'eight I'll ground ye two doodst.”

Christy blinked. “Are we going to fight or not?” he asked, “Because what I see is a fucking retarded ewe that I'd like to send back to Wales where he belongs.”

“OY YA FUGGIN BAHSTAHD” the champion traveler shouted, lunging at Christy with fists barred.

His arms flew up as the man's fists crashed towards him. There was an audible smack as knuckles connected to arms as Christy blocked the blow. The punch was quickly followed by a follow up that swung around his block from the right. The Irish youth ducked into it as the sound of the rogue fist whistled over his head. It wasn't until it was clear of his head that Christy himself had rammed himself into the beer gut of his contender, knocking him off of his feet.

He dodged to the left as the stumbling man tried to take a right-bound swing from the left. Sliding across the muddy turf he grabbed hold of the man's trousers and threw him to the ground. With a cold splash he landed sharply to the ground. Now hovering over him Christy introduced him to his own fists and there was a bone crunching crack as his hand met his mouth.

The man on the ground twisted to try and grab his foot and bring him down, but the drunken hungover skulking of the Traveler made it too easy to telegraph as he was met with a boot to the cheek that rocked his head to the side. A ribbon of blood splashed from his lips as a tooth was kicked loose.

Mumbling or sobbing wetly through a mouthful of blood, Christy danced over his downed opponent and took the time to plant his toes into his kidneys. It was enough that he coughed and spat and he rolled over onto his side, clutching his stomach as he wheezed through a broken mouth, and a bruised gut.

“Don't you fucking try this again.” Christy crooned, “And let it be fucking known I beat your fucking ass.” he sneered. His heart was pounding away in his chest, completely unaware that the fight was already done and there was no need for the climax of adrenaline. He shook off his knuckles as he stepped away.

“Cor Christree, ya reelly buggered him.” Longfurd chirped as.

“Should'a known who he was fucking with.” Christy pointed out, “So wrap him up or something and take him in to the hospital.”

“Water'fir?”

“A truck.” Christie nodded pleased, “He got hit by a truck.”