Praying to Saint Patrick

I can hear the horde outside my window banging blow up clubs against the hull. On Friday Clive delivered seventy two boxes to the Irish restaurant. It took a lot out of him. He was reeling last I saw him. He stepped in for me. I was standing before the giant with my sword dragging behind me. But he took the heat.

Now it’s Sunday. Clive is out. He should be back tomorrow. We were expecting another order from the Irish restaurant yesterday but it never came. Today I am the only pilot on board. The order may come in today. I may get a chance to fight the giant yet. There is nobody here to save me this time.

I scrub the deck, waiting, with the threat of the monster constantly present. Praying, oh god, praying for the strength of Saint Patrick; listening to Irish music on my radio to summon his spirit; wearing the tiniest touches of green on this Sunday before Monday, out of respect, reverence, and respect.

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