Beware the Ides of March

Melting snow in the parking lot of the Velvet Clam reveals the dumped ashtrays and puke puddles from a winter of partying. The warming weather makes Madge and I think of spring and our misspent youth. Madge loves this time of year since the green reminds her of Moose Knuckle Donahue, a man gifted with balls and a helluva nickname.
Knuckle, as he was known on the street, Irish hooligan that she shadowed to learn the art of chicanery, mendaciousness, and being a right nasty asshole. After moving to Boston, Madge was ultimately pulled into the dark world of sports betting, pub etiquette, and playing the tin whistle. It was an exciting time for Madge; she came face to face with some of the most notable names in the Irish Mob.
She began talking in limericks. Madge grew her hair into a head of luscious curls. She hit rock bottom when she started to wear a "Kiss Me I'm Irish" t-shirt to the firing range.
I've known Madge for many years, and her time with Knuckle is something that she never speaks of. But when the bar lights go down, and I'm washing glasses, I swear I hear a tin whistle being played from her room.

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