CHAPTER 2 - IT BEGINS

The bell tinkled as the front door opened and a foreign man walked in. Westie's hackles raised. It was bad enough that these people were subjecting the proud Irish nation to economic invasion, but now they had money to throw away at a bookie's. He lit a fag, the underlight from his silver Zippo making his face look foul.

The customer was dark-skinned, not quite ebony, but enough for Westie to know that there was something not quite white about him. He was dressed in jeans, runners, and a flashy dark blue t-shirt that yelled "I Ain't Dead Yet, Motherfucker!" in sparkly white writing. His hair was gelled - he didn't look that old. Exactly the type of bastard that Westie hated. He might even have been gay.

The man went to the boards and started examining the prices, raising an eyebrow here and there, looking away as he made some mental calculations. He took a loose betting slip from a nearby shelf and scribbled something on it.

Westie exhaled a thick plume of smoke, flicked the ash onto the concrete floor - he was fucked if he was paying for carpet - and ground it into powder with his heel.

The man approached the counter.