Death by Guinness
It was a cold Friday evening when the doorbell rang is Mrs Molloy’s house. When she answered the door, Pat Glynn, her husband’s manager at the brewery, was stood on the doorstep.
‘Pat. Hello. Where’s my husband? He should have been home from work 3 hours ago?’ The man sighed. ‘I’m sorry to be the one to tell you this, Mrs Molloy, but there was an accident over in the brewery. Your husband fell into a vat of Guinness and drowned’.
‘Oh my God’ she replied. ‘Please tell me it was quick?!’
‘Well… no. It wasn’t. He climbed out 4 times to take a piss’.
‘Pat. Hello. Where’s my husband? He should have been home from work 3 hours ago?’ The man sighed. ‘I’m sorry to be the one to tell you this, Mrs Molloy, but there was an accident over in the brewery. Your husband fell into a vat of Guinness and drowned’.
‘Oh my God’ she replied. ‘Please tell me it was quick?!’
‘Well… no. It wasn’t. He climbed out 4 times to take a piss’.
31-35, F
