The Fifth chapter

He who would lead. The words were ringing in Michael Dunhill's mind as he awoke. The dream had not quite let go of him, and so he hung delicately between waking and sleeping while it played and re-played quickly in his head.

Without a word he rose from his mattress and went about the room, rousing his newly discovered mates from their own dreams. He called into the dark corner where the young Finn McCool lay. When he received no answer he stepped forward and jostled the cushion with his foot. A groan was his answer as young Finn slowly pushed himself up from the bed. As his head turned towards the light Michael gasped at the sight. The entire left side of the his face was black and blue, angry red lines carved their way through the sea of color where the skin had split.

Young Finn smiled with the undamaged side of his face, "If you're frightened by this, Michael, you'll not like what is to come." With a shake of his head to clear the cobwebs from his brain the young man bounded out of bed. As he pulled a shirt gingerly over his head Collins asked from behind him, "What's the script mean?"

Finn glanced at the back of his shoulder where text was tattooed into the skin. A devilish grin lit the good side of Finn's face, "That is an old, old song. It's the marching song of An Cead Sluagh, The First Company. 'Hark to the tramp of the young guard of Erin. Firm is each footstep and erect is each head.'"

Collins nodded his head, "It's an inspiring song to be sure."

With a nod Finn dismissed the subject. He turned to the rest of the room, "Are we clear on tonight then? Do not run from the police, do not engage them either. Turn yourselves at right angles and continue walking. We will not turn about and flee, nor shall we force a confrontation tonight. Tonight we must stir the people, to do this we must avoid fighting, instead, we will simply show our presence. People will join up thinking we are a mob bent of destruction, but they will follow along when we lead. Let's show these Black and Tans a night they won't forget, let them quake in terror at the sound of our boots, only to be disappointed our pacifism. With no easy outlet for their pent up aggression, they will be forced to resort to taking the offensive."

"This is where I come in. While you," Finn pointed at Dunhill, "are taking a group around to the North. And you," this time at the two bearded brothers, "are moving to the south. I shall be going quietly up the center. When I meet them they will have no alternative but to engage me. This is where you come in, Mr. Collins. You must gather the evidence of this, and with this evidence we will hang them in the morning."

With this last exhortation they gathered their things, and left the small apartment. As the door closed behind them the bearded brothers, Sean and James, crossed themselves and muttered a prayer. Finn dropped back a step from the company to walk beside the two. It was quite a picture the three of them walking. The young clean-shaven and battered Finn with his short, powerful frame strode easily next to the tall brothers. Both Sean and James wore a recently trimmed beard as if they had just arrived home from the sea the day before. The salt spray over the bow of their fishing vessel had started to play havoc with the exposed skin on their faces, fading youthful softness to tanned leather well beyond their years. Standing well over six feet tall the brothers careers were told plainly in their faces, the strength of their arms, the coarse hands that seemed to be formed from the very wood and rope they controlled. The faint swagger with which Finn walked rocked back and forth, almost bumping the brothers on either hand while they crept forward, feet soft against the floor, waiting for the pitch and roll of a wave.

"Can I count on the two of you tonight?" Finn asked softly once they were far enough behind the others to avoid being heard.

Sean, the older brother, nodded. James assured Finn, "We weren't praying because we didn't think we could handle it."

Finn raised a hand, "Perhaps you misunderstood me. I wasn't questioning your faith or strength. I was inquiring about your patience."

Sean smiled ruefully, "We watched our family house burn to the ground under English torches when we were scarce tall enough to throw a line. What do you think we were praying for?"

Finn nodded, "Patience is just another kind of strength. Gather what you can, mates. This will be a long night."

The Fourth Chapter

Michael Dunhill laid down upon a mattress in a corner of the gloomy tenement. After the long day, and the fight at the bar he lay awake for only a few moments before sleep came, but no peace came with sleep.

When his eyes closed he saw the clouds race across the sky over Carrickfergus, as if they were trying to outrun the helicopters that circled above. Cries of mourning replaced the childish laughter that had once ruled the streets. It was a dark and dismal place, populated entirely by crying mothers and black-booted policemen.

In his dream he watched through a gap in the fence as the policemen came to drag off his older brothers. They were rounding up everyone in the city that was suspected of being a nationalist, loyal to Ireland. His two oldest brothers were led outside in handcuffs, grim gray eyes staring out from behind the bruises 'necessary' to arrest someone. His mother sat in the parlor, watching her two sons being carted away to the interment camps set up for those disloyal to the crown.

After the van with his brothers in it disappeared from sight the dream decided to forebear the tragedy of the next several years. Instead of the years of rations and starvation, abuse and cruelty handed down by the Protector he was transported across the rooftops to the moors. Consciously he was glad he didn't have to watch that again. The loss of his mother had tormented him all his life, and he was glad he didn't have to see it again in wretched detail.

The reality of the dream began to float away when he reached the moors. The empty hills were covered with formations of stone. As he stood on a hilltop with the morose skies floating above him he became aware of a movement behind him. He turned slowly to see a man towering above him. The giant was lifting stones from the earth to make the strange constructions that dotted the lonely hills. Michael gasped at the man's tremendous stature, at the noise giant turned to see what had made it. When he saw Michael he smiled, a gentle thunder, like that of the soft summer rains, questioned why he was there. Michael replied that he had been brought here without his consent.

The giant beamed and asked him if it was really so. Michael nodded and affirmation, but the giant still seemed quizzical. Was he sure that he hadn't been brought here on purpose, to learn what it was he truly desired? Was it really against his will, or just against what he forced himself to believe he wanted?

Under the great man's questioning Michael admitted that he was not entirely sure of the answers. With such honesty the giant became less interrogating and more friendly. Michael had come, the giant said, because he must. He was the subject of a fate far greater than himself, and he had come there to discover it, and find his part of that fate. Michael was not entirely convinced, he asked the giant why it had to be him, what made him so different than any other man. The giant knelt down next to him, he had come because he was the one needed, it was his differences from other men, but rather his similarities that made him the one required.

Michael asked the giant what made him so sure he understood the fates of the world. The giant rose, and parted his mantle to reveal the symbol upon his chest. The field of blue with an orange sun glowed with an other worldly light. Poor Michael Dunhill gasped again, it could not be that such a great hero really stood before him, yet there was no denying the crest of the Fiona. The giant asked if he understood. Michael could only whisper that he did, how could he not understand the great hero Finn Mac Cumhaill.

Finn Mac Cumhaill stood to his full height and looked out over the moors. After a moment of silence he turned to Michael and began to tell the history of the current world. He began with his death, the disbanding of the Fiona, the growth of Ireland, the troubled times, the forming of the Finn Eirann and their long, desperate struggle against the crown. Michael Dunhill already knew this story, after all he had sworn vengeance upon the head of his beloved mother and his path had led him already to the Finn Eirann. The naming of his pub Finneran's was no accident. Even though he knew the giant's story it would have been incredibly forward to interrupt such a man. And so Michael crossed his legs and sat upon the ground to wait the end of the giant's tale. Despite his existing knowledge of the story he found himself drawn in by the great man's rolling voice. In the midst of his rapture his conscious mind was checking off facts from the story against his knowledge of the Finn McCool lying on a cushion across the dark room from his sleeping body. The story of the Salmon of Wisdom rang over and over in his mind, the thought of the giant being burnt and placing his great thumb in his mouth to cool it, accidentally absorbing the wondrous knowledge, echoed through his memory.

After a long time the giant ceased his storytelling and turned to Michael. It told him, rather than asked, that he understood. Michael did understand, this was his future, it had been his from the beginning. He asked the giant how he should begin achieving his fate. Finn Mac Cumhaill smiled one last time and told him he had only to follow. After all, hadn't this story been written thousands of years ago, all that was left to do was follow it through to the end, and make sure that it unfolded the way it was told.

With this last piece of advice the giant went back to placing the great stones. Michael was borne up and away towards the ancient towers of Belfast. As he drew closer the towers seemed to age and crumble, by the time he was over the city it was the way he remembered it, dark and dismal. The unseen carrier brought him to the tenement where his body lay sleeping. As he entered and prepared to awake himself, the words of the giant echoed again through is mind, "Follow the one who will lead."

The Third Chapter

Seven men walked swiftly through the streets of Belfast. They were led by a young man who appeared to have engaged a wild lion in single combat. Through the streaks of blood and darkening bruises a pair of glowing green eyes stared at the buildings lining the street. These eyes were the most singular feature in a face that commanded attention, none of the features themselves were overpowering, each strong enough to hold its own, but not to take over. The crooked, one-sided grin gave a gentle touch to the face, while the fire behind those eyes belied the smile and left no mistake that this young man had a purpose. Below the face lay two broad muscular shoulders, rounded with heavy power. These shoulders had proved themselves capable of driving a fist into a man hard enough to break bone. The arms they supported were deceptively powerful, the hands broken from the recent fight and scarred from many before that. He was not a tall individual, he stood no more than five feet nine inches in sock feet, but he was clearly the type that was used to leading men in a fight.

Behind him walked the six best fighters from the evening's encounter at Finneran's. These men were also inspecting the buildings as they walked, yet they did it from curiousity, wondering what it was their leader was searching for. Their walking had taken them from the high streets near the pub, down into the slums, where the Black and Tans seldom traveled unless backed up by official police.

The buildings had faded from the quaint brick facade into a series of squat tenements, encased in concrete. Boarded windows had replaced geraniums, and street lamps were no longer friendly fireflies, casting their light on the buildings and lovers walking on the sidewalk. The magic of the shop window Ireland had disappeared, replaced by the harsh reality of Ireland under English rule.

At last the young man leading them turned into a courtyard on the left side of the street. Quickly through the door and up the steps to the second floor where he stopped at a door without a name on it. He pulled something from his pocket, the object was unidentifiable, but it was most certainly not a key. Five seconds later the door before him opened easily under his hand.

The seven slipped quickly inside where the young man pulled a string. The interior of the room was illuminated by a single bare light bulb hanging from the ceiling. In the corner stood an old television supported on an orange crate. Couches and chairs in expected condition were scattered about the room with packing crates for end tables.

One of the younger followers dropped onto a couch and broke the silence, "I believe that you owe us an explanation."

The young man stood in the center of the room and motioned to the seats surrounding him. As the five left standing arranged themselves around the room he began to explain, "You have all been brought here because you will play an important role in the events of the near future. Tonight marked the beginning of what I believe will be a great period of turmoil and change in this country. I believe this because I have come here to effect this change. Many of you have already formed your own opinions of my identity and my origins. Anything I can say at this point will either be ignored, or discredited, therefore I shall refrain from a long winded story. Let it suffice to say that there is a group of people, both here in North Ireland and elsewhere, that would like to see an end to the English rule here. After many years of planning and studying they decided that this was the time to move forward. I am one of their agents, sent to fight for the freedom of Ireland."

Michael Dunhill raised an eyebrow, "So you have been sent here by a secret group of freedom fighters? And instead of bringing compatriots with you, instead you choose the first six people you meet during a drunken brawl. This hardly seems like a well laid out plan."

The green eyes softened for a second, "To you, Michael, this may seem like a random collection of men. However I feel that it is fate that brought this unique group together. While you may not realize it yet, each one of you has a specific purpose in this movement, else you would not have been chosen."

"For example," again the thumb went in the mouth, "Mr. Collins there."

A slender, but wiry, man with thinning hair and glasses widened his eyes, "Yes?"

The green eyes sparkled with hidden knowledge, "You, Mr. Collins are a photographer for a magazine."

The man with glasses gasped, "Why, yes! Yes, I am, but how did you know?"

The young man in the center of the room laughed, "You are because you must be. You must be because we need someone of your talents. Therefore you are, because we need you to be. This is the way of it. We were all chosen by fate, not because of anything we have done, but because of what we are going to do."

Right now there are reports being filed, and a squad has been sent to the pub to search for us. They will not find us, and that will make them nervous. Those two black and tans we left in the street will have woken up, and they will tell the searchers that there is are twenty devils about. Later tonight after the initial search has been abandoned, tensions will run high within the enforcers and the police. This is when we will make our first move."

For the next few hours the young man laid out the plan for those in the room. With a piece of charcoal a rough map of the city was drawn on the bare floor. Directions were given for movement and timing. Questions were asked and answers given, the men who began that first session were skeptical, yet as the time wore on they were soon on the edge of their seats, eyes glowing in the low light.

It became apparent soon enough that Michael Dunhill was the second in command of the small troop. The older man's gray eyes burned with a fire that hadn't been kindled for many years. His hands worked slowly around in his lap as his eyes darted back and forth over the map. The hair on top of his head was not white, instead it was the color of old iron. His face had been whipped by the harbor winds for many years, and the sting of the salt showed in the leather that had replaced the boyish face of years gone by. The wrinkles on his face were not made by smiling, in fact the one time he did smile all evening the lines bent like the grain of a board suddenly straightened after years of lying warped. His nose lay across his face like the path of a man who has forgotten something on the way home. One cauliflowered left ear gave away the years in the boxing ring. As if to enforce the point the thick neck that supported this visage ran away quickly down the sloped shoulders to arms that showed many years of hard labor. This was the current appearance of Michael Dunhill, many years out of Carrickfergus, and many thoughts away from that sunny harbor town.

Once the plan had been thoroughly laid out and all questions answered, it was decided to retire for an hours rest before the nights adventure began. While the other six lay down upon mats or couches the young man with green eyes went to the washroom and began to carefully wipe away the blood that caked his face and neck. Michael followed him as far as the door, "When it comes time to wake you, lad, by what name shall we call you?"

As the red water ran through his fingers the young one glanced in the mirror at Michael. "You can call me what you've been calling me in your head the whole time. Call me Finn."

The First Tangent

The sun beamed gently down on the waves lapping at the sea wall. This was not the same sun that looked down so sadly upon Belfast in the troubled times, this was the sun that danced merrily up and down over Carrickfergus some many years before. It was a gentle sun, a playful sun, much like the times and places it reigned over. Many years ago England didn't play nearly as heavy a part in the world around it. Back then Northern Ireland was just that, a free province of Irishmen. They had their differences with the Catholic Republic to the south, but each tended to their own fields, and peace was the predominant feeling.

Through the streets beneath this benevolent sun ran groups of children. Their joyful voices echoed off the walls, turning simple laughter into symphony. The bustling markets around them hawked fresh fish and all the latest trinkets to come in off the boats, or in on wagons from the surrounding County. The fishmonger's stand sent it's odor down the street, reminding all that this was a seaside town. The tourists wrinkled their noses, but to the children and old men this was the smell of home.

The fruit stand was a bustling place, always warding off groups of children who came to borrow a piece. Housewives in their best shopping clothes browsed through the beds of brightly colored morsels, trying to select the very best for their tables. A crew of masons came by moving to a new job, they stopped to fill a hod with shining oranges before moving on to the next site.

These were the simple times, the Secretary was far away in London, and the people were left to themselves, and doing quite well. No one saw the clouds on the horizon. Clouds there were, however, for the secretary had been replaced with a new man, and this new man had no intention of leaving people alone to rule themselves. People had to be governed, they had to be told what they could do, or else the entire fabric of society would tear apart.

In Carrickfergus there was no sign of the coming storm. The ancient gates and porticos bustled with activity and happiness. Out of this wonderful chaos a young boy of five sprinted towards the streets leading into the city. Lunch time was drawing near, and it was time for every child to be getting home lest mother be worried.

This one in particular had to hurry, for every morning he traveled down to the market to play with his friends, but because his family lived farther uptown he had farther to run when he forgot lunch time was drawing on, as he did every day. It was a mad dash at noon to be home before his mother found him to be absent, and put his lunch away, or gave it to one of his brothers.

It used to take him a full ten minutes to run from the wharf back to his house, but as the days wore on he learned the secret paths, as every boy will. With a cut down an alley and a quick scurry through a hole in a garden fence he could see the back of his house not far away. Three steps up the stones piled inside the fence on the other side and he leapt down into the back street that took him straight to his door.

The kitchen was quiet, four boys ranging in age from 7 to 14 sat around the table, calmly awaiting their midday meal. Into this tranquility stormed a whirl of arms and legs, still wiping the water from the washbasin outside from the attached eyes. This tumult spun to the end of the table and deposited itself in the form of a small boy with large gray eyes into the last chair.

With a slight smile the mother passed plates of sandwiches around the table. When she came to the end she sat down next to her youngest son, placed his lunch in front of him and asked, "Well, Michael, who were you today?"

The boys eyes widened, his breath drew in and he beamed, "I was Finn Mac, the giant of old." With the tap opened the stories poured out, describing the great battles fought all morning between the Irish hero and his loyal band against the marauding Vikings, English, Scots, monsters, demons and goblins. While she listened to the babbling stream of exuberance the mother could not help but feel some pity for the children unlucky enough to be elected to the marauding bands, for they never had a chance of winning. When the flow of words hesitated to take a breath she leaned over and kissed his forehead, "Don't forget, Michael, there are other men in this world than giants. Sometimes they are ordinary men that turn out to be the heroes."

The boy solemnly nodded his head, after all Mother knew a great deal, but obviously she had forgotten that great heroes were always giants.

Chapter the second

It was a quiet throng that watched as the young man rose. He wiped the blood from his mouth, ignoring the flow from the side of his head down his face and neck. The English crew had since fled the scene, hoping to avoid the fate of the black and tans. An older man in the crowd muttered, "You oughtn't to have done that. They'll be on us for sure."

The crowd murmured assent, it wasn't a pleasant thing to be on the wrong side of the black and tans. Their wrath was well know in this part of Belfast. The young man spat out blood and a piece of a tooth, "Do you not see it? We have them."

He was answered with silence, no one saw how they had the advantage over anyone. It had been far too long that the people here were driven into the ground under English boots. The province of Northern Ireland was only free in name, in all ways that mattered it was a protectorate of the Crown, with a governor appointed by the House of Lords. The plight of the Irish people here was a dire one indeed, they were the lowest class of citizens. They couldn't vote, demonstrate or bear arms. All that people in Belfast did from the day they were born was live so as to be invisible to the police and the state. When men felt brave they gathered around fireplaces in dark houses to tell the stories of old, of times when giants roamed the earth and kept Ireland free and safe. This was the reason there was no answer, every soul present felt what he meant, but none dared to consciously acknowledge it.

The young man spat again, "We have finally got the bastards right where we want them! Can't you see how this all plays out?" Again there was silence.

"Dammit all, am I the only one present who can look ahead and see what's about to happen? There is instability in the government, pressure is being applied from outside to force them to treat us better, and we have proven tonight that we have the ability to stand up for ourselves."

The young man's voice rose with passion and his brogue rolled off of his tongue into the darkest twilight of the streets. He spoke of the ancient ones, the warriors that had owned this land. He repeated over and over that this was the time for action. The crowd was beginning to grow visibly supportive when the same old man who had condemned him earlier asked, "What's your name, lad?"

The young man looked at him, "Don't you know me?"

The old man responded, "I don't know you. Where are you from?"

With a smile the young man stated, "If you knew me, you would know from whence I come," the young man popped a thumb in his mouth, then continued, "Michael Dunhill from Carrickfergus."

The old man raised an eyebrow, "That's a good parlor trick."

The young man placed his thumb in his mouth again, then went down the front row of the crowd, calling each by name and birthplace. County Down, County Antrim, County Armagh and County Londonderry. With each name he reeled off another man in the line began to nod his head. With each name the thumb went back in his mouth, only to be removed again for recitation of the next.

When he had finished he turned back to the old man and asked, "Have you seen enough? Or ought I to do the next row as well?"

The old man nodded, "That'll do, it's plain that your thumb does a lot of telling. But your tongue hasn't told us your name yet."

Another voice in the crowd piped up, "Isn't it plain? Only one man ever could know that much just by sucking his thumb. He's the great Finn McCuil!"

Instead of a cheer, a silence dropped on the crowd. All eyes were focused on the young man in front of them. Old Michael Dunhill's voice quivered as he asked, "How old are you, lad."

The young man smiled, "Would you believe me if I told you?"

Another murmur ran through the crowd. Surely this must be he, who else could fight like him, he's not tall enough, he fights well enough, he sounds like he's older than he looks, the thumb, the thumb, the thumb. What other hero in history has had such a definitive trait?

"We have to go," the young man said, "They'll be back on us soon enough, we need to find a place to lay quiet for a time. Then we'll come back out and teach them who's island they're on."

A cheer rose up from the crowd. How could they not? The legendary hero had returned to free them from the English. It was all the young man could do to calm them. He selected from their midst six men, all of whom had fought fiercely inside the pub. And so they went, the fate of a nation resting on the shoulders of seven men.

The first chapter

The evening shadows drew themselves about Finneran's Pub as a mantle drawn across a face, changing the familiar to the darkness of doubt. The buildings on this street were old, lacking in elegance what they made up for in mystery. These were the famous Old Streets of Belfast, the cobblestones had seen the passing of centuries, the brick walls whispered the secrets of generations and even the streetlamps glowed with their guarded knowledge of plot, purpose and espionage that pervaded this area.

Finneran's itself was a quiet building, standing back a pace from the sidewalk left it cowering in an alley all its own. As the old wood door was pushed open, leaving flakes of blue paint on the hand of the entrant, it revealed a scene of tempo driven madness. The calls for beer and whiskey echoed and re-echoed across the small room, filled beyond capacity by the most singular collection of patrons that the pub had seen in ages.

At first glance it was a swarm of Irishmen descended upon the small tavern for the purpose of celebrating the New Year, yet when one looked closer at the waitresses burdens the variety of the company stood out plainly. The pints slid down the bar to the old men who passed every evening with each other in this place, with no one left to turn to other than comrades in cups and tales of days gone by. Ales were borne across the doorway to the collection of English here for the New Years day match. Whiskey by the bottle flowed to the middle of the room and the waiting glasses of the younger Irishmen who loudly toasted the New Year, and less loudly the future of Erin's Isle, and muttered a curse at their English Governor. The collection of students across the back of the room was identified by bottles of Vodka for the Russians, Wine for the French, Schnapps, Grappa and Gin.

The friendly feeling in the room was weighted with tension as the time drained away, and the discrepancies between the English and Irish grew greater. The mutterings gained in volume, and became less veiled in meaning. Taunts began to fly back and forth between the crowds, with the travelers in the back of the room sitting quietly, hoping not to be noticed. The television showed a view of downtown London, where the crowds had gathered to count out the old year. The sight of a Union Jack flying in the square inspired one of the more passionate young Britons, who leapt to his feet and began singing 'God Save the Queen' at the top of his lungs. All of his comrades held their glasses aloft and chanted with him. When they had finished their final notes there was a thick silence in the room. Dozens of Irish eyes were locked on them, a quiet fire fanned by the passion of hate grew quickly until the blazing green could no longer be faced.

An old man at the end of the bar pushed off of his barstool and stood there teetering on the brink of balance. First quietly, in an unsteady voice, began the song. The old man looked firmly at the English as he began to swell with fervor, belting out the 'Rocky Road to Dublin'. A glass crashed against the bar near him, but he did not even pause for thought. Shouts rose from the front of the pub, and still the old man sang on. With a strangled cry the young one who began singing for the English sprang over a chair and backhanded the old man across the mouth, "You dogs'll have to learn that your howling is not wanted!"

In the silence that followed the group from the front stood and gathered around their mate. Up until this point their numbers had gone unnoticed, as had the relatively large size of most of them. With them all standing there in a group, however, it became quite apparent just how many and how large they were. The silence continued, as no solitary soul was willing to venture against so many strong men. The passionate one wiped his mouth with the same hand that had laid the old man low, he grinned evilly and muttered, "That's how you deal with dogs."

Even as he turned a voice raised itself and lilted across the tension to all ears, "Hunt the hare and turn him down the road and all the way to Dublin."

The young one whirled around to face the brave voice. It was an American. The American rose from his table and threaded his way towards the throng of angry Englishmen, all the while whistling and chuckling about a street fight in Edinburgh.

The Tommy cracked his neck and knuckles. Another grin passed across his face as he thought about how his fist would feel passing through this one's jaw. The American was right in front of him. There was an explosion from the Tommy's shoulder, and the American spun and fell onto a waiting table. With a laugh he raised a chair and brought it down across the American boy's back.

The American pushed himself to his feet and faced his attacker. The young one chuckled to him, "You should have stayed down." With a jerk he grabbed the American's lapels and drove his forehead towards his face. It never made it there. It was painfully slowly that he realized the American's hands had come up and pushed his own hands away. It was even more slowly that he saw the hands clench and sweep towards his face. This eternity occupied the half second it took the American to turn the situation and send the young Englander flying backwards into his comrades arms.

There was no hesitation on anyone's part. The American dove forward and buried another fist into the left eye of his foe. With a cry the Belfast boys finally moved and struck straight and true into the crowd of English. In less time than it takes to tell the English had been driven through the doors and windows of the pub.

Out in the street the fight continued to rage with the Tommys getting the worst of it. This attracted the attention of a pair of para-military enforcers down the block. They came swiftly running and began to lay about with their night sticks, driving the fighters apart. The trial was conducted on the spot, and there was never a chance for the defenders of Erin's honor. With a unanimous finger point the Englih identified the American who started the whole thing

The enforcers pulled him from the ranks of the irish, and with one blow from a club dropped him to his knees. The blows continued to rain down until the American fell prostrate on the cobblestones, blood flowing freely from several cuts. The enforcers ordered everyone back inside the pub, saying that they would take care of the offending individual. No mention was made of retribution for the Tommy who started the whole thing.

A stirring on the pavement behind them caused both enforcers to turn. The American had raised himself up to his knees again. With a grin that showed little but blood he began, "Come out you black and tans, come out and fight me like a man." The nearest enforcer stepped back and put all of his effort into swinging his club and the American's head. Before it could make contact though it was halted by the hand of the intended victim. The American twisted round and smiled into the enforcer's face, "Tell your wife how you won medals down in Flanders."

The second enforcer savagely cut at the head, but the head was no longer there. The American lunged forward into the knees of the first enforcer, a tearing pop echoed through the street at both knees gave way under the attack. The follow up too was ineffective as the American kicked like a mule, connecting solidly with one foot to create the pleasant sound of ribs breaking. A whirl and strike later the second enforcer crumpled to the pavement with a broken jaw.

The American, for so he was, though none yet knew it, turned to the crowd of dumbfounded Englishmen, "Tell your mothers, 'The Wild Geese have returned.'"

Tonight

The generations we know
love to put on a show
Cause the feelings we feel
Tell us everything's real
And the passion and anger
That fill up our minds
Convince us that nowhere
is a land of the kind

Hate is a thing that can take your life
Oh, nobody's growing old tonight
When you finally fall, to tired to fight
Oh, nobody's growing old tonight

So we pull back from extremes
And we live in the norm
But the truth is out there
Hidden in unfamiliar forms
From hostile takedowns to rational breakdowns
We've dissected the lies that we used to ignore
With jade for our hearts and a cynical mind
We're too apathetic to even follow the blind

Walk away from the stress and all the strife
But nobody's growing old tonight
When you're all alone and you missed your life
You'll see nobody's growing old tonight