Patrick staggered about the streets of Dublin armed with a pistol, a few shots of smooth whiskey, and uncounted pints. The sound of the city around him was constant, like rushing water. He was pretty well lit by midnight, and he hadn't even hit either of the major parties that would surely run well into daylight. If there was one thing to be said about modern Ireland, it was that whiskey was great. They had always had spirits, harsh and painful to drink, probably made from potatoes, but what they could make in the new breweries and distillers was a delight. They could mull a drink over so many times it tasted good. God did it, too. Pat had spent the last few hours avoiding home and his parents, and he was now in the mood to get pissed and go to a cheap hotel with a nice catholic girl in to