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Hinckley ·
@RunTheJulz "If I were rich, or English, they’d call me eccentric.”
Patrick Murphy paused for a
moment and took a sip from a glass half-full of an amber colored liquid. “But, I’m
neither. So they call me an Irish bastard or a drunk or both. But, I don’t drink.”
Isabella frowned and pointed to the glass. “What’s that then?”
“God’s tears, child.”
She scoffed at Patrick, “Go on wit ya! That’s whiskey.”
He nodded. “Aye, it’s God’s tears. God weeps upon the land and we take those
tears and maybe a bit of grain and it turns into this.” He hoisted the glass towards
the kerosene lamp and watched the light filter through the liquor. “Good, Irish
whiskey.”
Patrick Murphy paused for a
moment and took a sip from a glass half-full of an amber colored liquid. “But, I’m
neither. So they call me an Irish bastard or a drunk or both. But, I don’t drink.”
Isabella frowned and pointed to the glass. “What’s that then?”
“God’s tears, child.”
She scoffed at Patrick, “Go on wit ya! That’s whiskey.”
He nodded. “Aye, it’s God’s tears. God weeps upon the land and we take those
tears and maybe a bit of grain and it turns into this.” He hoisted the glass towards
the kerosene lamp and watched the light filter through the liquor. “Good, Irish
whiskey.”
