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A monologue from the play by Martin McDonagh
Padraic answers the phone while in the middle of torturing James, a drug dealer.
Will you hang on there a minute, James? It’s me dad. [into phone] I’m grand indeed, Dad, grand. How is all on Inishmore?
Good-oh. I’m at work at the moment, Dad, was it important now? . . . Oh, I’ve not been up to much.
I put bombs in a couple of chip shops, but they didn’t go off . . . Because chip shops aren’t as well guarded as army barracks.
Do I need your advice on planting bombs? . . . Well the fella who makes our bombs, he’s fecking useless. I think he does drink.
One thing about the IRA anyways, as much as I hate the bastards, you’ve got to hand it to them, they know how to make a decent bomb . . .
Sure, why would the IRA be selling us any of their bombs? Those bastards’d charge the earth anyways.
I’ll tell ya, I’m getting pissed off with the whole thing. I’ve been thinking of forming a splinter group . . .
I know we’re already a splinter group, but there’s no law says you can’t splinter from a splinter group. A splinter group is the best kind of group to splinter from anyways.
It shows you know your own mind.
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