The Murph, The Myth, And The Misunderstanding

06 November 2026

2037

R. Linda:

I was sitting at me desk this morning, reminiscing to meself about days gone by. I had just got into work and was feeling a little foggy. Aye, I be having trouble with the time change still. 

I looked up as Ms Jaio popped her head in to say, "Good morning." She was holding a news article that had a photo of Rob Gronkowski posing at a polling place with a woman and her child. 

Just that image brought me back to January 2016, the morning after the Patriots lost the AFC Championship on a botched 2-point conversion, but others blamed it on the Gronk. That morning, I was assigned an interview that, for some reason, popped into me head today. Probably because the Gronk was in New Hampshire at the polling places urging people already there to vote. I thought that was moronic since that's why they were there, but then maybe Gronk had too many hits to the head. 

Anyway, I remember that morning in 2016, me head had felt like a construction site in Southie. Being a Northern Ireland transplant who had somehow bluffed me way into a staff writer gig at a Boston newspaper, I had been hiding behind a monitor, nursing a lukewarm Dunks.

Me editor, Cruella, a terrifying woman whose accent sounded like a chainsaw cutting through a tin can, smacked a folder onto me desk.

"O’Sully! You’re up. Carlton’s out with the flu, so you’re covering the South Boston Senior Centre’s annual charity drive. Go interview their lifetime achievement honoree. Name’s Murph."

I blinked. "Murph? Is there a last name?"

"Just Murph," Cruella barked. "He’s a local legend. Don't screw it up."

An hour later, I was sitting in a drafty community room across from a man who looked like a weathered piece of granite wearing a flat cap. Murph’s knuckles were the size of walnuts, and he looked at me voice recorder like it was a British spy device.

"Alright, Murph," I began, pulling out me notepad and turning on me best charm. "Let’s start with the basics. Where exactly in Boston did you grow up?"

Murph stared at me. A minute passed. I checked whether the man was still breathing.

"The town," Murph finally croaked.

"Right, yes, Boston," I said. "But which neighbourhood? Southie? Charlestown?"

"The town," Murph repeated, harder this time.

I frowned. I wondered if me thick Northern Irish accent was perhaps off-putting to him.

Now, I hadn't the foggiest notion what the man was on about. "Yes, but which town, Murph? Boston has many areas. It’s a city, you see."

Murph leaned forward, his eyes narrowing. "Are you thick, kid? The Town. C-Town. The square. Friggin' monuments."

"Ah!" I smiled, relieved. "The monument! So you’re from near the Wellington Monument in Phoenix Park?"

Murph’s jaw dropped. He looked around the room like he was searching for a hidden camera. "Phoenix Park? The hell are you talkin' about? Bunker Hill, you absolute bagel."

I nodded furiously, sweating through me sweater. "Bunker Hill! Got it. Moving on. The paper wants to know about your career. Me editor tells me you were heavily involved in the local... shipping and logistics industry in the 70s and 80s?"

Murph went dead silent. The temperature in the room dropped ten degrees. He slowly reached into his heavy wool coat. Me life flashed before me eyes. I thought of me Mam in Newry. I thought of me unpaid parking tickets.

Murph pulled out a pack of Winstons, lit one right under a 'No Smoking' sign, and took a long drag.

"Logistics," Murph whispered, the smoke curling around his cap. "That’s what they’re callin' it now? Who told you that? Was it Fitzie? Because Fitzie’s a rat. If Jimmy sent you—"

"No one sent me!" I squeaked, me voice cracking. "It’s for the Senior Centre! For the charity!"

"Right. Charity," Murph said, a dark smirk forming on his face. "We did a lot of 'charity' back then. Unloading crates off the docks at 3 AM. No paperwork. Very charitable to the neighbourhood, if you catch my drift. The feds called it 'grand larceny,' but hey, potato, pot-ah-to."

Me pen was trembling. I was pretty sure I was currently interviewing a retired mob enforcer, and me editor had sent me in with a notebook and a smile.

Desperate to change the subject to something safe, I blurted out the first thing I saw on me cheat sheet. "So! I see you’re a massive fan of football! Let's talk about the big game last night. Devastating loss for the Pats. What did you think of the sportsmanship?"

Murph blinked. The tension vanished, replaced by pure, unadulterated fury.

"Sportsmanship?!" Murph roared, slamming his fist on the table so hard that me Dunks spilt over. "The friggin' passah had one job! One job! My grandmuthah coulda throwed that ball better, and she’s been dead since the Carter administration! They get paid millions of dollahs to throw a pigskin, and they choke like a bunch of frauds!"

"But the Gronk…"

Murph stood up, kicking his chair back, and spent the next twenty minutes pacing the room, launching into a profanity-laced tirade about the coaching staff, the offensive line, and Brady being battered by Denver's defence. He used words I didn't even know existed in the English language, most of them ending in "-ah."

I had sat frozen, frantically writing down words like scumbags, bums, and dink just to look busy.

Finally, Murph stopped, wiped his brow with a handkerchief, and looked down at me. "Anyway. That’s my piece. You put that in the papah."

"I... I will, Murph. Word for word," I lied, knowing Cruella would fire me into the sun if I printed a single syllable of it.

"Good kehd," Murph said, slapping me on the back so hard me lungs rattled. "You’ah alright. For a guy who talks like a leprechaun."

I walked out into the freezing Boston air, threw me notepad into a trash bin on Tremont, and walked straight to the nearest pub. I ordered a Guinness, took a sip, and resolved to tell Cruella that Murph had moved to Florida.

Gabe

Copyright © 2026 All rights reserved

Me Extra Hour Of Madness

04 November 2026

Story #2036

R. Linda:

I swear I did not order the Mexican omelette, though I was sorely tempted. I had a turkey club sannie and a latte. That was it, so I can't blame last night on spicy food. Just wanted to get that out of the way before you asked.

I tell ya, this time change business drives me up a pole. I be fed up to the back teeth, I be, with getting used to one time and then having to change back again. It's made me unwaking life hell. 

Just last night I went to bed a wee bit later than usual. I wasn't particularly sleepy, but I willed meself into the sleep state; I did. 

And what happened? A nightmare, that's what. And, in me waking life, a possible divorce in the works.

I had a fantastical dream that I was sitting in a wheelchair outside an old-fashioned, sinister-looking hospital. And I, meself, was in a full-body cast! 

What had happened to me? Why was I wrapped up like a plaster mummy? Had I fallen out of a tree rescuing a bobcat? Been run over by a Bigfoot? Been trampled by escaped cattle?  I dunno. Dreams don't bother explaining these things. They just plop you into the middle of a catastrophe and expect you to get on with it.

So there I was, in me wheelchair, on the hospital grounds, while me wife was inside talking to me doctors. And I wasn't alone, oh no.

Beside me stood me 13-year-old son, Carlito. Yes, Carlito. Now, where I'd acquired a 13-year-old son by that name was beyond me, but there he was, large as life, telling me that his grandpa and granny had moved in temporarily to help out while I recovered. Recovered from WHAT, I still didn't know. 

Anyway, as I studied the lad, I noticed he bore a striking resemblance to a 13-year-old Weasil. And when he grinned at me, I noticed something else. His teeth were yellow. Not slightly yellow, mind you. Yellow enough to make a canary jealous.

"You need to brush your teeth, sonny boy," I said.

"Can't bring meself to go into the lav," he replied.

"And why ever not?"

"Grandpa's teeth are in a glass on the shelf, and they gross me out. Not to mention he's got a battery of pills lined up. He takes one every minute of the day. It's so bad I've started calling him Popsi."

"Popsi? Why?"

"Because he's a pill popper, so Popsi."

I let that sink in.

"And Granny," he continued, "I call Potsie."

"What? Why is that?"

"Because she hallucinates and smokes pot."

I stared at him.

"Since WHEN?"

"I dunno, but she does. She forgets stuff and talks to the air."

Well, that was comforting. Me parents-in-law had apparently turned into a pharmaceutical dispensary and a cannabis lounge.

Then a thought occurred to me.

"Hang on a minute. If you won't use the lavatory, where exactly DO you go?"

"Oh, I go out in the bushes where the dog does her duty."

"WHAT?"

"Yeah, and Popsi renamed your little dog Alma, Poopsie, because the amount of shite and piss boggles his mind. He didn't know it was mine until he caught me taking a leak in the bushes."

"WHAT, WHAT?"

"So now he doesn't call me Carlito anymore. He calls me Pe-peeito. Pe-pee for short. 

I closed me eyes, hoping the conversation might go away. It didn't.

"I guess you could say we are four P's in a pod," he announced proudly. "No, make that five; the pod is a P too."

"STOP IT!"

I'd had enough.

Weasil, was me 13-year-old son; Popsi was popping pills. Potsie was smoking pot. Poopsie was being blamed for the lad's bodily functions, and Pe-peeito was apparently quite pleased with himself.

And there I sat, trussed up like a Christmas turkey, unable to escape.

I needed a smoke; I did. Now I be no smoker. Never have been. But suddenly I had an overwhelming craving for a Virginia Slims. Don't ask me why. I haven't the foggiest.

"You got any ciggies on ya?" I asked.

The lad gave me another of his revolting yellow smiles. And that's when it dawned on me. The yellow teeth! The little blighter was a heavy smoker!

He patted his jacket pocket, reached inside it and produced a carton of cigarettes. A CARTON! At thirteen years of age!

Before I could deliver the fatherly lecture such a discovery demanded, he flipped open the carton and withdrew the longest cigarette I'd ever seen.  It had to be ten inches of pencil-thin tobacco, with another two inches of filter attached.

A full FOOT of cigarette!

I swear, you could have used the thing to measure curtains.

He held up a hand, signalling for me to wait, as though I had anywhere else to go, then rummaged in his pocket for a box of Lucifers. Now there's an old-fashioned term for matches, and where he'd pick it up, I dunno, probably from 'Potsie'.

He struck one, lit the cigarette, and puffed away until he was satisfied it was ready for ME. 

Then, since I was encased in plaster from me neck to me toes, he stuck the blasted thing between me lips. There I sat, looking like a mobster who suffered a very unfortunate encounter with a cement mixer.

The cigarette dangled from me mouth, its glowing end waving about like a miniature lighthouse. Then the ash began falling into me lap. Now, this concerned me greatly. What if the ashes set fire to me lower bits? Here I was, encased in plaster and bandages, unable to move a muscle. I couldn't even scratch me nose, never mind extinguish a fire in me nether regions!

I was contemplating the terrible possibility of having me family jewels roasted when suddenly the lad snatched the ciggie out of me mouth.

"YEOW!"

He took a piece of me lower lip with it! Before I could protest, he shoved the entire cigarette up his jacket sleeve. I sat there in shock, with the filter still stuck to me damaged lip. Then I noticed something peculiar. Smoke was curling out of the top of his jacket. Not a little wisp, mind you. A proper column of smoke. The boy was turning. himself into a chimney!

And THAT was when Tonya appeared. She took one look at me, marched over, and yanked the filter off me bleeding lip. 

"OUCH!"

At precisely the same moment, I heard a much deeper: "OUCH!" I looked up.

Weasil's head was surrounded by cigarette smoke. It billowed out of his collar, drifted past his ears, and rose above his spiky hairdo like a steam locomotive about to leave the station.

I watched, horrified, as he fumbled for his phone. 

Ah, good, I thought. The lad's calling for help. But no. He dropped the phone and threw himself onto the grass. 

"Fire," he whimpered.

Then he began rolling about like a demented sausage on a barbecue. Unfortunately, his phone had landed face-up on the ground, and Siri, ever helpful, sprang into action.

"FIRE ALERT - CALL FIRE DEPARTMENT. FIRE ALERT - CALL FIRE DEPARTMENT."

Tonya turned to me, her face a picture of fury and disbelief. "Is he having an epileptic seizure?"

Before I could answer, Siri piped up again.

"EPILEPTIC SEIZURE IN PROGRESS - CALL 911 IF YOU ARE IN THE USA. EPILEPTIC SEIZURE IN PROGRESS - CALL 999 IF YOU ARE IN THE U.K. EPILEPTIC SEIZURE IN PROGRESS - CALL 112 IF YOU CAN'T GET THROUGH TO 999."

Now, I dunno about you, but there's only so much helpfulness a person can tolerate in a crisis. Tonya had clearly reached her limit. She marched over to the phone, raised one foot, and brought her heel down on Siri's screen-face with a satisfying CRUNCH!

Siri was dead.

Meanwhile, the lad continued writhing on the grass, rubbing his face into the turf as though trying to burrow his way to Australia. Eventually, he sat up. 

And, sweet suffering saints, what a sight!

I thanked the Fates he didn't have a beard at 13 years old because his eyelashes and brows were GONE. His spiked hairdo, which previously looked like something a hedgehog might envy, now sported several round, bald patches. The remaining spikes were singed, and a few tiny embers were still fading out. He looked like a badly extinguished birthday candle. 

Then he spotted his phone.

"ME PHONE!" He shouted. He looked in horror at the smouldering wreck that once housed Siri.

Tonya folded her arms.

"No phone for you, mister! Get yourself up and to the car NOW! I will deal with you later." 

Well, he didn't need telling twice. Off he went, scurrying across the grounds like a dog with its tail between its legs, leaving behind a faint smell of burnt hair and Virginia Slims.

I thought, at last, the nightmare was coming to an end. But no. Suddenly, I heard running footsteps behind me. 

An orderly charged across the grounds carrying a fire extinguisher. He spotted Siri's battered remains, which were beginning to smoke rather ominously, and apparently decided the lithium battery was about to explode. 

He aimed the nozzle. 

PSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSH!

A great white cloud of fire retardant engulfed the phone. Siri, already crushed beneath Tonya's heel, was now thoroughly and comprehensively extinguished. There'd be no resurrection for THAT particular assistant.

And there sat I. Bleeding from me torn lower lip. Little red spots decorating me pristine white bandages. Unable to move. Unable to protest. Unable even to wipe me own chin. Nobody said a word. Not one blessed word. Then Tonya let out a long, weary sigh. The sort of sigh a woman makes when she's had enough of husbands, children, cigarettes, mobile phones, and possibly the entire human race. 

She turned to the orderly. "Take him back to the asylum.

THE ASYLUM? Did she say ASYLUM?

Before I could demand an explanation, she marched off in the direction of the car, clearly determined to rip the 13-year-old Weasil a new one.

The orderly took hold of me wheelchair and began pushing. Toward the building. The great, gloomy, old-fashioned building. With its tall windows, forbidding stone walls, and doors that looked as though they locked from the OUTSIDE.

I stared up at it. 

Now that I looked closely, it didn't resemble a hospital at all. It looked like an asylum. A genuine, honest-to-goodness, lock-'em-up-and-throw-away-the-key asylum!

"Er…asylum?" I mumbled. 

The orderly kept pushing.

"ASYLUM?"

No response.

"ASYLUM? ASYLUM? ASYLUM?

I was practically shrieking the word now.

"ASYYYYYLUM!"

And suddenly…

I WAS AWAKE!

I was in me own bed! In me own house! In me own perfectly normal body! 

I yanked me arms out from beneath the blankets and held them up in the dim light.

FINGERS! I had fingers! And they MOVED!

No plaster! No bandages! No wheelchair!

I wasn't a mummy after all! Oh, the relief.

But then, from somewhere behind me, a voice came. A very familiar voice. A very UNHAPPY familiar voice.

"ASYLUM? You want an ASYLUM? I'LL GIVE YOU AN ASYLUM!"

I froze.

"If you don't stop tossing and turning and talking in your sleep, I WILL find an asylum! I get ONE extra hour of sleep, ONE, and YOU are making sure I don't get it!"

There was a pause.

Then, in a tone that could have stripped paint off a wall: "SO STOP IT RIGHT NOW!"

I said not a word. Not one. I lay meself back down, pulled the blankets up, and stayed perfectly still. I didn't dare move a toe.

After a while, I began wondering what in the name of all that's holy had caused such a terrible dream. It had to be the time change. It just HAD to be!

They tell us we're getting an extra hour of sleep, as though it's some wonderful gift from the heavens. Well, I'll tell ya what MY extra hour gave me.

A 13-year-old son I never fathered, a pair of pill-popping and pot-smoking grandparents, a dog blamed for someone else's shite, a foot-long cigarette, a fire, a murdered Siri, and a wife threatening to have me committed.

And I didn't even get to smoke the bloody cigarette!

I lay there another few minutes, listening to Tonya's breathing, wondering if she'd gone back to sleep. Then I had another thought. Come spring, when the clocks go forward, and we LOSE an hour, what in God's name is THAT going to do to me dreams?

I shuddered.

No. No, I wasn't going to think about it. But I will tell ya one thing. Next time I fancy a Mexican omelette, I'm ordering the bloody thing. At least then, if I wake up in an asylum, I'll know who to blame.

Gabe

Copyright © 2026 All rights reserved

Who Ya Gonna Call?

02 November 2026

Story # 2035

R. Linda:

Well, it isn't every day you're corralled into getting a cat out of a tree, but I did that not too long ago in my own yard. And because me endeavour was successful, I was the one called to remove another cat from someone's tree.

I had been home enjoying my extra hour of sleep and had just awoken to the smell of freshly brewed coffee wafting up from below, and all was right with Gabe's world. I got meself out of bed and followed the aroma to the kitchen, where I sat me down, as me little grey-haired, apple-cheeked Mam put a large cuppa before me with a freshly made piece of Brambrack, covered in melting Kerrygold. Oh, the decadence! 

I was in Daylight Savings heaven; I was!

That is until I started me second piece of Brambrack and was just slathering more Kerrygold on that warm piece of deliciousness when me phone rang. I reluctantly stopped what I was doing and picked up.

It was me old neighbour from where I first lived; we have been friends ever since. He had a dilemma he did, and he was wondering who to call when he remembered me telling him how I got a cat out of a tree at me house and well, he had the same problem. This cat he had did not let him and his wife enjoy that extra hour of sleep; no, it did not! It was up in the tree outside their bedroom, yowling the entire night.

As a result, he said, his wife was in a "crabby mood" and did not make breakfast. A sin for a farmer, not to have sustenance first thing before feeding the barnyard. And, deprived of sleep himself, he was not in a great mood either! They snapped at each other and blathered over small things while, outside, the serenade continued unabated.

SHE tasked HIM with getting that infernal cat out of the tree. 

Wasn't his cat, he said. "No," he said, squinting out the window at it, "not one of our barn cats."

"Well…fix that. Get it out of that tree." And that was an order, and well…what choice did he have? Be sleep-deprived for the rest of that cat's life up in the tree, have to listen to the "little woman" grumble at him about cat incompetence when it comes to removal techniques, and worse of all, she might be too angry to ever pick up a pot and pan again. Oh, the horrors of such thoughts!

SO…Who ya gonna call?

ME, OF COURSE. I had somehow got a reputation as a cat-tree rescuer after one cat situation. 

And me, being a friend of the man and his significant other, could not refuse. So off I went, jamming that last piece of bambrack down me gullet and Mam pouring coffee into a thermos; I was off to do me rescue bit. 

When I got to me old neighbours, he had a ladder propped up against this King butternut ready for me. I got out and instantly heard growling overhead, not the meowing or meow-wailing one expects to hear from a treetop feline. 

"Angry kitty," I said to the old man.

"Ay-yuh, that it is. Looks like a tiger cat, maybe from the farm down the road, but they say no. I think they just don't want to be bothered, ay-yuh."

"Well, let me get me gloves and up I go," I said cheerily. I had me Mam's oven mitts because this was a cat I did not know and didn't want to get scratched. 

So up I went as he held the ladder. It was a climb; I can tell you that much. That cat was nearly at the treetop, and the ladder, while sturdy, was way up high, so yours truly glanced down every so often, thinking: this be getting dangerous.

The further up I climbed, the louder the growling got. When I was an arm's length away, I looked up and said, in the gentlest tones I could muster, "Ah now, Kitty-kitty, I be here to help ye down, I am."

I put me gloves on, took one last step up the ladder, and I was face to face with a bobcat! Yup, I was staring into the glowing yellow eyes of an ear-tufted wild thing that looked like it was about to rip me face off. What to do? I was speechless, stunned, and not afraid to admit the cold panic running up me spine in a dire situation.

I took out me phone and snapped a shot, and the click made the wildcat swipe at me hand. He missed, but I had the image, and I texted it down to the man below. See here:

That bobcat looks entirely pleased with himself, doesn't he?
Sitting up there surveying his kingdom, while I nearly lose me life AND me Mam's oven mitts!

"Gabe, I think ya should come on down now." The old guy called up to me.

"Do ye now?" I said, looking to go down a rung slowly in case the "cat" decided it was hungry; since it had been up there a day, I was sure it be hungry, and well…

Slowly I took a step, and it snarled, almost scaring me enough that I almost fell over backwards, but I grabbed onto a branch to steady meself.

"That was close!" The old man yelled.

"You think?" I mumbled, not taking me eyes off the now aggressive, pissed-off animal. Then I noticed it had food. It had gotten squirrel (make that plural) and had been munching away, so it was up there for a reason and would come down when it was fed.

"Is this the tree with the squirrel family?" I shouted down to me former neighbour.

"Why yes? It got a squirrel up there?"

"From the looks of it, I'd say it has the whole family."

"Well…Gabe just started backing down slowly, and I'll hold the ladder for ya." He said not very reassuringly.

I did, ever so slowly, until I was five feet from the ground, then picked up the pace to get down.

The old man, with a speed I didn't know he was capable of, brought down that ladder just as fast, and we legged it inside. 

Each of us, holding full glasses of whisky, stood behind his bay window and looked out at the tree and then up at the munching bobcat. 

Several seconds later, the old man's wife came in with a steaming cup of joe and stood squinting at us, like she wondered what we were doing and looking at. She saw the whiskies and frowned.

"Awful early in the day to be takin' a drink, don't ya both think?" 

We started mumbling together and pointing, making no sense whatsoever, which only frustrated her more.

The old man went into another room and returned with a pair of binoculars. He handed them to her without a word, just pointed to the top of the tree.

Not sure what she'd see, she held them to her eyes and looked up. For several seconds, there was silence. Then the binoculars came down.

"THAT'S NOT A CAT!"

"Well, technically…" Her husband began.

"Don't you technically me, old man! That's a wild animal up there!"

"Ay-yuh," said her husband, taking another generous swallow of whisky. "That's what we've been trying to tell ya."

She looked at him, then at me, then back at the tree.

"And just what are ye two plannin' to do about it?"

There it was. The question neither of us wanted to hear.

"Well," I said, choosing me words carefully, "from what I've observed, he's quite comfortable up there. Got himself a nice view, a bit of fresh air, and a rather extensive breakfast menu."

"Gabriel!"

"And," I continued, "I suspect he'll come down when he's finished eating."

She stared at me as though I'd suggested inviting the creature in for Sunday dinner.

"So, we're to have a wildcat living in our tree, eating every squirrel in the county, and the two of you are just goin' to stand there drinkin' whisky?"

"Well, not indefinitely," I said.

Her husband nodded. "We'll need another bottle eventually."

That did it.

She set her coffee down with a bang, gave us both a look that could have curdled fresh milk, and marched towards the living room.

"FIGURE IT OUT!" she shouted over her shoulder.

We stood in silence for a moment. Then the old man looked at me.

"Well, Gabe, what d'ya reckon?"

I looked at the bobcat. The bobcat looked back at me. Then I looked at me whisky.

"I reckon," I said, "we ought to call someone who actually knows how to get a cat out of a tree."

"Ay-yuh. Know anyone?"

"I did," I said, raising me glass. "But he's just retired."

And that, dear R. Linda, was the beginning and the very abrupt end of Gabriel's Cat Rescue Service. One satisfied bobcat. Two thoroughly chastened men. And not a squirrel left to lodge a complaint.

Gabe

Copyright © 2026 All rights reserved