WARNING:
The following story is for the entertainment of ADULTS ONLY, and contains descriptions of explicit sex. If you are not an adult, or reading sex stories upset you, or you are offended by subjects of a sexual nature - do not read any further!
This story is for entertainment only. It contains adult oriented material. This is a work of fiction. The acts and characters contained within are figments of my imagination and have no basis in fact. I do not practice, advocate, condone or encourage acts portrayed here. The characters in the story are entirely fictional. You need to believe that all of the characters are over the age of eighteen.
This story may not be reproduced in any form for profit without the written permission of the author. This story may be freely distributed with this notice attached.
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We take a brief detour (Not again!) from two series - "Dots and Dashes of Color" and "Service With A Smile" - to explore the deep meaning of the Festival of The Green. No, not the day Mr. Marcus consumed too many chili cheese dogs at Wieners R Us. St. Patrick's Day.
Mr. Marcus goes after an Irish lass who perpetrated violence on his dear sweet Annie, and runs into a bride's maid green with jealousy.
We know who drove the snakes from Ireland, but what motivates Mr. Marcus to drive his snake into young women? I present the cir-cum-stantial evidence . . .
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I'd forgotten it was St. Patrick's Day, although the green ties, green dresses and green doughnuts in the food cart in the lobby should have been an obvious clue. Actually, the green doughnuts could have been moldy ones unsold from the previous Friday.
I escaped any encounters with colleagues, customers and my boss all morning, completing several technical specifications. My brain was drained, and I was in no mood for conversation. When lunch hour rolled around, the usual eat-together crowd headed off to Hennessey's. No surprise when they came back plastered. Before any face- or buttock-copying broke out, we all got early dismissal, to prevent serious mistakes while inebriated. In fairness, they let everyone go home early, including all of us sober blokes. Someone thought it was funny to pin a "Kiss Me, I'm Jewish" button to my jacket. Oh well, nothing else I was wearing was green.
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On the couch at home, I harmlessly paged through the local paper, checking out young female athletes in the Sports section. The silence was interrupted by the front door squeaking open.
"Hello?"
Annie peeked out around the corner. "Hi, Daddy."
We were supposed to have a family dinner that night. All we needed was my wife to get back from who-knows-where. Annie had her back to me. Odd. "Turn around, sweetie."
Annie stood with a hand over one eye.
"What happened?"
She dropped her hand, exposing a black and blue shiner. "Marty Kelly punched me in the face."
"What?" Some classmate punched my only daughter? I jumped up, letting the paper scatter to the floor. I knew precisely where the student directory was, in the kitchen next to the phone.
"Daddy, don't!" Annie pleaded. She was pulling at my arm. "You'll only make it worse."
I ripped the page of "K"s from the booklet and stormed off to the garage. "Someone needs to teach that kid a lesson."
"Daddy!" Annie stood in the kitchen doorway as I backed out of the garage, beckoning me back. I could feel the blood throbbing in my ears. How dare some bully sock my Annie in the face? What is this world coming to? Annie wouldn't hurt a fly. She might, however, unzip one.
I obeyed all the traffic laws, despite my foot's desire to floor the accelerator after every stop sign. A series of deep breaths lowered my blood pressure but did nothing to curb my mission, to confront the young man who brutalized Annie.
I stopped at the proper address, turned off the engine and yanked at the handbrake. I was up their front steps in two leaps, and leaned heavily on their doorbell.
A young boy, maybe seven, opened the front door. This couldn't be the kid. "Are you Marty?"
"No, that's my sister."
Sister? He must be mistaken.
"Maaaaaa," cried the boy.
A woman walked over, a baby nursing on one breast. I heard crying of another child somewhere in the house. "What can I do for yee?" The baby pulled back, exposing a fat red nipple. "You'll excuse me. She needs feedin'."
"Of course." I was jealous. Her breasts were pale, nice sized, obviously milk-laden. "Your son Marty hit my daughter Annie and gave her a black eye."
She pushed back the screen and gestured me in, past an entry table. "You met my only son. The other three are girls. Marty is spelt with an 'i'." She walked into their living room and motioned to a family portrait on the piano. Her and her husband, a burly brute I'd prefer never to meet, a red haired young lady, the young boy and two babies, dressed in green, not traditional pink.
"Okay, I got the gender wrong. Still, there's the issue of Annie's assault. Can I speak with Marti?" I asked.
The baby in her arms lifted her head towards the nipple, blocking my view. "Best not. I'll speak to her when she gets home after work." The crying in the other room got louder. "She'll be leaving your Annie alone from now on. You'd be leaving now."
"Where does she work? I'd like to speak with her myself."
"You'd be best letting us apply the discipline. Marti has a temper, for sure. We'll handle her, Sean and me. Thanks for letting me know."
I headed out, deflated from the lack of satisfaction. I wanted the direct confrontation, not delegation to Marti's parents.
"Could you do me a favor?" Mrs. Kelly called from the other room. "Fetch the mail and put it inside?"
"Sure." The mailbox was mounted next to the door on the exterior wall, filled with a newspaper and dozens of envelopes. I flipped through them, looking for a clue. Among the envelopes, I saw a paycheck-style envelope from the Radmont Hotel, downtown, addressed to Marti Kelly. Bingo! Temper, huh? Perhaps she works the hotel bar a bouncer?
Traffic between the suburbs and downtown was murder, which gave me time to think about what I'd say to Marti. Every scenario ended with me punching her in the face, so she'd look and feel the way Annie did. The idea of doling out physically violence seemed acceptable, and I shivered at the concept. I'm a lover, not a fighter.
I parked in the hotel's lot, expecting that they'd validate, even if I punched out one of their employees. After all, this was personal. I strode through the lobby to the bar. It was full of rowdy drunks singing songs off key, but no redheaded waitresses. Back in the lobby, I scanned for activity. Near the staircase to the second floor, a sign directed folks to the Gillpatrick-McGinnis wedding. Of course! She's waitressing a wedding party. Based on the bride and groom's surnames, these folks picked a perfect day, St. Patrick's Day, to get married.
