The Chronicles of the Fiddler

Be it known far and wide that even in this time of great tragedy in the world, the Fiddler is still king.

The evidence for this began with the first exploits of one Bryan McCrae, born a little over a quarter-century ago in the Mecca of the whiskey world that is County Cork.  The tales of his travels and triumphs could span the length of the Internet itself, so we will focus on more recent additions to the legend of the Fiddler.  More specifically, the evening of Friday last.

The place for these auspicious events was none other than Piratz Tavern, wherein a great many goodly people gather to share in the ultimate joy of food, drink, and fine music.  The son of clan McCrae ventured there, as it often his habit, after a two-week respite, to reclaim the former glories vested on him by the great goddess Brighid, his matron.

Alright, so I've been reading Homer again.  You try reading The Iliad and not find yourself spoutin' forth with verse poetic.  In any case, let us continue the tale in a manner slightly less “epic.”

So I'm at Tavern, enjoyin' myself, puttin' forth the best of musics piratical we've offered in quite some time, and it occurs to me that the hour of nine draws near and we've not even finished our first set.  That's right, as bonny Flint said, we spent an hour and a half in the front.  I think we ended up only doing two sets that night- one

forward and one back.  The crowd was one of the best I've seen, particularly in that it was rife with the scourge of many a Friday evening- unaccompanied lasses!  I call such a bountiful gift from the powers above a scourge because it evidences a serious problem with the men in this land- there aren't enough of them, leaving the fiddler to clean up the mess!  Yes, this vast burden of lechery and wenching falls upon my shoulders.  Fortunately, the fiddle has made them strong and able, with an iron will to match.  There I go on my own epic again.

With table after table of bonny lasses shouting “MacIntyre” and stuffing all manner of currency into my breeches (I love this job), I call the evening a success.  Let us only hope that tonight will bring as much joy, luck, and craft.

The day following brought an activity called “ice skating,” where one fixes sharp blades of steel to his boots and glides about on a frozen surface.  I enjoyed that much immensely, though the near-misses with small children who can't seem to pay attention to the other people out on the ice with them… Let's just say I failed as a ruthless pirate, because I didn't kill anyone.

Yet.

But Flint didn't kill anyone either, and she actually tries after the reputation of ruthless and bloodthirsty!  I'm a lover, not a killer!

Well, so maybe I'm a killer too, but a man can be a balance!

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