Glory be to Paddy, but they're drinkin' it straight. [OPEN, R for Cussing]
Earlier, somewhere in the Vatican's outbuildings:
Carefully, Murphy poured a little of the precious liquid into a dish, then placed the bottle far, far away. He nodded to his brother who then, with great ceremony (and from a safe distance) lit a match and tossed it in.
The flame burnt fast, bright, and blue.
The twins grinned.
******
The next flame burnt a decidedly different color, and distinctly higher. The boys jumped back, laughed, and Murphy pointed at his twin.
"You're trying it first!"
Now, nearly everywhere:
Connor and Murphy paraded through the city, past the library, the sensoriums, through the sleeping quarters, winding their way to the cafeteria. The two, who had been strangely difficult to pin down lately, were now laughing, chanting, and banging on pots they'd scrounged from somewhere. They'd each a large jug or two slung on make-shift straps over their shoulders, and their chant seemed to go something like this:
"Two Irishmen, two Irishmen were digging in a ditch,
one called the other a dirty son of a
Peter Murphy, Peter Murphy, sitting on a dock;
along came a bumblebee and stung him on the
cocktail, ginger ale, five cents a glass.
If ya do not like it, ya can ram it up your--
Ask me no questions, I'll tell you no lies.
If you're hit with a pail of shit, PLEASE CLOSE YOUR EYES!"
Between rounds of it, they were sipping from flasks and shouting "Come on, it's fuckin' Saint Paddy's Day! Free drinks in the mess! Get your arses in there with yer fags put out, or we're fucking partying without ya!"
[ooc note]
Carefully, Murphy poured a little of the precious liquid into a dish, then placed the bottle far, far away. He nodded to his brother who then, with great ceremony (and from a safe distance) lit a match and tossed it in.
The flame burnt fast, bright, and blue.
The twins grinned.
******
The next flame burnt a decidedly different color, and distinctly higher. The boys jumped back, laughed, and Murphy pointed at his twin.
"You're trying it first!"
Now, nearly everywhere:
Connor and Murphy paraded through the city, past the library, the sensoriums, through the sleeping quarters, winding their way to the cafeteria. The two, who had been strangely difficult to pin down lately, were now laughing, chanting, and banging on pots they'd scrounged from somewhere. They'd each a large jug or two slung on make-shift straps over their shoulders, and their chant seemed to go something like this:
"Two Irishmen, two Irishmen were digging in a ditch,
one called the other a dirty son of a
Peter Murphy, Peter Murphy, sitting on a dock;
along came a bumblebee and stung him on the
cocktail, ginger ale, five cents a glass.
If ya do not like it, ya can ram it up your--
Ask me no questions, I'll tell you no lies.
If you're hit with a pail of shit, PLEASE CLOSE YOUR EYES!"
Between rounds of it, they were sipping from flasks and shouting "Come on, it's fuckin' Saint Paddy's Day! Free drinks in the mess! Get your arses in there with yer fags put out, or we're fucking partying without ya!"
[ooc note]