Scary Horror Stories by Dr. NoSleep - SMASHER vs. Mafia: A Christmas Special (Part 1)

Episode Date: December 22, 2025

Listen to the full series now with a 7-DAY FREE TRIAL of ⁠Dr. NoSleep Premium⁠. Cancel anytime. No commitment. Dr. NoSleep Studios presents a Dr. NoSleep Original series: SMASHER vs. Mafia: An SvM Prequel. ⁠NoSleepCoffee.com⁠⁠ — Get 20% off insanely fresh, roasted-to-order coffee delivered straight to your door. Just use promo code NOSLEEP20 at checkout for 20% off your first order! BetterHelp: Sign up now and get 10% off at⁠⁠ betterhelp.com/dns⁠⁠. Author: Dave Kavanaugh ‘Welcome back to the Slasher Vs. Mafia Universe! We first met the character of Dermot “Smasher” MacMurrough in our September episode ‘Slasher Vs Mafia: Prison Break’. Set in present day, it told the story of serial killer Jasper David Wraith’s daring escape from All Saints Prison, with the help of two his infamous cellmates: the giant and silent “Smasher” and Nicky Scarpinato, AKA “The Christmas Cannibal”. The story of those notorious fugitives will continue in future episodes, but for now, we go back 25 years to tell the tale of how Dermot MacMurrough ended up behind bars.’ * * * CONTENT DISCLAIMER: This episode contains explicit content not limited to intense themes, strong language, and depictions of violence intended for adults. Parental guidance is strongly advised for children under the age of 18. Listener discretion is advised.  #drnosleep #scarystories #horrorstories #doctornosleep #horrorpodcast #horror Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

Want to listen to the entire three-part smasher versus Mafia series today? Start your seven-day free trial of Dr. No Sleep Premium now and listen to all three parts without waiting. Just go to patreon.com slash DR. No Sleep to sign up. You can cancel any time, no commitment. That's patreon.com slash D.R. No Sleep. When they pulled the canvas sack off the shackled Mafioso's head, he squinted, expecting blinding light.

But the warehouse where his captors had taken him was dim and cool. The only light source was a few columns of dusty sun from high, open windows. He sniffed. The place smelled like fish and something worse. From outside, he could hear seagulls, ship horns, and dockworkers on the job. A bit of sea breeze off the bay shook the dirty plastic curtain that hung across the far wall. The mafioso cleared his throat. and looked up at the dozens of men gathered around him,

their faces in shadow, their arms crossed. They were dressed in denim and flannel and old workboots, and many had beards or unkempt shoulder-length hair. Huh, what a joke. This new brand of so-called gangster had no style at all. When he was coming up, in the 60s and 70s, the criminal underworld in the city of Grim Bay had class. They had Gravita.

But it was 1986 now, and all that was gone, just like his cousins and friends and compatriots. All were dead or locked up. A door squeaked open, and the crowd of gangsters parted to make way for the newcomers. He wondered if it would be her, the matriarch of this crew. But the two individuals now approaching his chair were male. At first, he thought it was one man and one boy, but now they were both chival. children. He had heard rumors about these two, the bastard sons of the new Queen Pin, but to see them in the flesh was something else entirely. The boy in front was about 13. He looked tough and stoic, dressed in a dark denim jacket and pants,

and wearing a gold chain necklace and a diamond stud earing in his left ear. His coily black hair was cut short, and his skin, well, his skin was different. Asymmetrical patches of light and dark covered his face and hands, like dark brown clouds in a chalk white sky. The mafioso let out a low whistle, then looked up over the first boy to the second, who stood with his shoulder slumped and his head bowed. This kid was technically the younger of the two, but thinking of him as a little brother, as a little anything, was absurd.

Although only 10 years old, the kid was already over six feet tall, with a large head, broad shoulders, and the biggest freaking hands the mafioso had ever seen. His hair was bright orange, with a cow lick, and his downturned face was pale and wide, with exaggerated features, jutting forehead, flat nose, big ears. The only thing about these two that marked them as brothers were their eyes. They both had small, light blue eyes. Jesus, Mary and Joseph, said the mafioso, shaking his head. You two really are a freak show. Let me guess.

He smirked at the shorter of the brothers, with the patches of light and dark color in his skin. Your daddy must have been a cow! He looked up and let out a low whistle. And yours must have been a goddamn ogre. My, oh my, that Guma mother of yours really wasn't selective. And what she's screwed, now was she? This little outburst elicited a good deal of grumbling from the men in the warehouse. But the two boys, they didn't flinch.

I have Vidaligo, dumbass, said the boy in front. And my brother has pituitary gigantism. Giantism, eh? Then it's like I said, hey, big boy? The oversized child said nothing. What's the matter with him? Don't he talk? What is he?

Slow? No. the brother in front. He's just quiet. It's called selective mutism. You know, you really should read a book sometime. Ha ha! He shifted on the seat and winced. Hey kids, think you who's could loosen these goddamn shackles? They're rubbing my wrists and ankles raw. Before the boys could answer, the door squeaked open a second time, and the distinct sound of high heels clicking on the concrete echoed around the warehouse. The gangster parted, nodding in respect, and the boys both moved aside. And there she was, in a power suit with shoulder pads, her red hair and a high perm, sucking on a large

cigar as she approached. The mafioso grinned. Well, well, my raid McMurrah, the whore, who stole a criminal empire. Come into a stop, she blew a cloud of pale blue smoke, from the side of her mouth and said, If you look at history, Mr. Scarpinado, you'll find that every umpire was built on theft and destruction. You should read a book sometime. I was just telling him that, Ma. Said her eldest son.

Marade smiled. Have you met my sons then? This here is Cormac, reaching out with her free hand. Marade laid it on the shoulder of the boy with Vidaligo. He's a hell of a businessman already, aren't you? And here, she turned her eyes to the giant ginger, who continued to stare at his feet.

Is Dermott? Dermott will be a mighty fighter. When he finally learns to come out of his shell, won't you? Dermott did not respond. Turning back to her captive, Marade took another draw on her cigar. Boys, this greasy son of a bitch is Mikey Scarpenado. one of Romulus's many, many nephews.

Pleasure, said the mafioso, rolling his eyes. So can we move on from all these theatrics now? All this hoopla with the chains and their creepy warehouse and blah, blah, blah. It's rather silly, even for you's ma. As soon as this word left his mouth, the crowd of gangsters behind her flinched, and one grizzled fellow with glasses, mutton-chop sideburns and a ponytail marched forward.

I, the man snapped. You don't be calling her that now. Why not? I thought everybody calls her ma. The Irishman glared behind his glasses. We do. You call her Madam McMurrah. My mistake?

He cleared his throat. All right then, Madam McMurrow. Hughes want to intimidate me, right? Well, guess what? I'm intimidated. There. What else? Yous want me to kiss your fucking ring?

Fine. The Celtic cartel is one. You own the streets. Happy now? He leaned forward in the chair, chains jingling, and smirked. But Hughes and I both know, you need me and my guise to handle the docks. Without us, you don't have the numbers to move your products.

Or handle the authorities when they come sniffing around. I'm a vital part of your operation. Is that so? Said Marade, a twinkle in her blue eyes. She looked over at the man with the mutton chops. Fitz, why don't you show our guest here the catch of the day? Right, your arm, said Fritz. And walking to the wall, he grabbed a dangling rope and tugged it.

On the back wall of the warehouse, the plastic curtain was dragged sideways. From his chair, Mikey Scarpenado narrowed his eyes, trying to make sense of the shapes suspended from the shadowy ceiling there, hanging on meat hooks. As comprehension dawned on his face, his eyes bulged. They were bodies. Forty men, naked, their arms and legs removed. Their heads lulled forward.

The hooks had been stabbed into their backs and out their bellies. Jesus fucking Christ! He spasmed in his seat, rattling the shackles. You fucking bitch! What the fuck is wrong with you? What have you done? Coming closer, Marade lowered herself to one knee before him and drew deeply on the cigar.

I won! She blew smoke in his sweaty face. That's the thing about us. Irish Catholics. And it's the same as you Italians. We all have a boatload of cousins. And my boatload is arriving in the harbor tonight. From the old country,

50 strong lads eager for work and loyal. Her blue eyes squinted in a victorious smile. So no, Mikey, I do not need you and your guys anymore. Rising, she turned her back on him. Oh, fuck! He hissed, teeth gritted. Marade cast a look around at her men, then turned instead to her two sons. Cormack straightened up, puffing up his chest, showing what a brave little man he was.

Behind him, Dermit did not move. She walked to her youngest son and looked up into his downturned face. Dermit, she said softly. Remember what we talked about. Well, it's time. Ten-year-old Dermot's face flinched and swallowing. He gave his head a little shake. Marade sighed irritably.

Cormack cleared his throat. Hey, oh, ma, if he's not like up for it right now, I'd be happy to... Shut up, Corm. Your brother has put this. off for long enough. Dermott closed his eyes. At the end of his long, stocky arms, his massive hands curled into fists, as if trying to hide the size of each massive finger. Then he made a little noise in his throat, like a whispered grunt, deep and pleading, and tilting his head a bit to the left,

his lips twitched and his forehead wrinkled. "'What's that boy?' snapped his mother. "'He says he don't feel good, ma. Your brother could use his bloody. words? She screamed, and when Cormack opened his mouth to speak again, she shot him a stern look, and he cowered, silent. Turning back to Dermit, she lowered her voice to a sinister whisper. My darling boy, the Lord and his wisdom has gifted you with the might of a warrior. It is shameful to let that go to waste. Again, he only flinched. None of that face switching shite. You know I can't fucking understand it. Ma! Kormack said.

He ain't ready. Please, just let me knife the fucker. Oh, Jesus! Wailed Mikey Scarponado from the chair. Glaring, Marade grabbed Dermott by one giant arm and pulled him. He did not resist, and stumbled forward as she guided him to stand directly in front of the shackled mafioso. Now then, hold out your hands, she demanded of her son. Dermit did not open his eyes, but slowly, watched by all.

He uncurled his fists. then lifted his arms up, letting his massive hands hover in the air, on either side of Mikey Scarbonato's head. Oh, man, what the fuck is this? Winded the mafioso, now starting to shake so badly his teeth chattered audibly. Marade moved around Dermit, rested a hand on his back and whispered, Good for this piece of shite. Dermott didn't move.

A shudder went through the boy's body, and he led out a tiny grunt. At his back, his mother's son. snarled and jabbed him in the back with her hand. Dermit shook his head. Kormak averted his eyes, but whispered, just do it, Derm, get it over with. Do it! Their mother screamed, jabbing him again. Dermot's mouth stretched suddenly open, and his eyes blazed with fear and fury. He screamed, a sound like a wounded beast. He whipped his arms wide, then brought them crashing together with a thunderous crunch. The crowd of watching men gasped, closed his own. eyes. Marade McMurrow smiled and patting Dermott lightly on the back, she said.

There now, that wasn't so hard now, was it? Young Dermit could not tear his gaze off the sight before him. His giant hands remained on either side of the man's head, dripping, shaking. Mikey Scarpenado's skull had been crushed inward, the bone fragments loose and jutting under his bruising skin. One eye had exploded into goop. and the other was bulged out, bloodshot and loose on its optic nerve. From the ruined mouth above his shattered jaw, there issued bubbles of slobbery blood and wet, agonal breaths. E!

Coming suddenly, too, Dermit gasped and pulled his hands away. The head flopped sideways, and the body went limp in the chair, dripping blood and urine on the concrete floor. Cormac sighed his hands into his pockets and turned to walk to the exit. Brushing by his brother, he whispered. He gets easier. Fits and the other members of the Celtic cartel turned to follow the boy out, walking in silence. Marade moved around to Dermott's front, careful not to get any spilled bodily fluids on her shoes.

She beamed up at her son. I'm so proud of you, she told him. My little smasher. Then she, too, turned and walked away. And Dermott was left alone, staring at the blood on his hands. Picture this. It's late at night. You're scrolling, and suddenly you find exactly what you've been looking for. You add it to your cart, maybe browse a little more than head to checkout,

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As the 1980s rolled into the 1990s, the industrial hellscape around the harbor of Grim Bay gradually changed. Under the leadership of McMurrow and her Celtic cartel, the place was cleaned up and modernized. The surrounding borough, known affectionately as Little Dublin, changed too, from a run-down neighborhood of decrepit housing for the dockhands and their families, into a thriving hub of activity 24-7. And while the city's elite might have preferred to stay in their penthouse apartments in the corporate downtown,

their rebellious children all knew the truth. For a good time, you had to cross the Odin's Gate Bridge into Little Dublin, and go for drinks at the Ballygub, or for a great time you had to visit the lusty shamrock. By March of 1998, that nightclub had a lot to offer, and not just exotic dancers, pool tables, an extensive cocktail menu, and the city's best DJ. For beyond the main floor of the club,

there lay a maze of backrooms, where one could procure just about anything for the right price, from a kilo of Columbia's finest to private companions, ship of every sort, and even anti-aircraft artillery. Despite all these criminal offerings, many people would rank their favorite part about visiting the Lusty Shamrock to simply be getting to see the establishment's infamous bouncer in person. Standing at 8'6 and counting, the 21-year-old ginger giant, known as Smasher, had become something of a local celebrity. And though he rarely ever spoke to the patrons at the Lusty Shepard,

Shamrock, they always got a thrill out of having him check IDs and nodded them stoically inside, or else turn them away with a shake of the head that, while subtle, was never ignored. He kept his bright orange hair long and loose upon his hulking shoulders, and his wide jaw was traced in a chin-strap beard. He wore suspenders over a white-collared shirt, jeans that barely fit over his muscular thighs, and the tailor-made boots, as no store-bought footwear would fit. him. One evening, as a group of nervous young men reached the front of the line outside, the one in front raised his driver's license in a shaky hand. Dermit McMurrow plucked it up in his 10-inch fingers and squinted down at the date of birth. One bristly eyebrow raised on his jutting forehead.

The young man swallowed. What? I'm 21, man. Dermott's other eyebrow went up. "'Ah, fine. I turn 21 tomorrow. "'But it'll be midnight in like a few hours. "'Come on, Mr. Smasher. Just let me in.' "'Dermit looked down. His blue eyes alight. "'Please?' The young man added. "'Dermit cracked a smile.

"'And handing the ID back, he turned and lifted the green velvet rope "'to let the group pass inside. "'Even as they disappeared down the dim hall, "'from which, pumping music played, Another young man jogged out, looking anxious. "'Sup, Durham,' he said, a little breathless. "'They need you inside.' The man, whom everyone called Young Fitz, to differentiate him from his father,

moved to take Dermott's place by the door. Dermott turned and started to duck into the entryway, when Young Fitz added in a whisper, "'It's Lotus!' At the mention of the name Lotus, Dermott moved suddenly faster. his hulking body rushing down the hall in almost perfect silence, so that as he came upon patrons, they were startled and jerked aside.

Emerging into the wide-open main floor, with its strobing lights and thumping bass, he moved quickly through the tables and approached the stage, where spotlights shone on the stripper pole, though no dancers were on the stage. At the foot of the stage, a short man in a pinstripe suit was screaming in the faces of two of the club's dancers. One of the women who had jet black hair held up with lotus flower clips was bleeding from a swollen lip. Dermott's heart hammered in his massive chest, and his giant hands trembled at his sides as he marched in long, furious steps toward the confrontation. Just as he reached them, the music died suddenly, and the houselights came up, erasing the sexy atmosphere and causing many patrons to whine. "'Oye!' called a voice from the balcony above, and looking up, Dermott saw his brother Cormack,

rushing down the stairs toward them. Dermott reached the angry man in the suit first, and calling upon a monumental level of internal restraint, he did not grab the patron and crush his body into a pinstriped meatball. Instead, he slid in between the man and the dancers and stood there, a tower of glaring flesh. Whoa! Okay now, seriously? The suited man shouted, throwing up his hands. There was cocaine around his nostrils and on his collar. Somebody come get this ugly gorilla out of my face right now before I...

Before you what? Cormack stomped into view. His blue eyes burning in his handsome face, with its light and dark patches. He wore a diamond earring and gold chain necklace, a tailored denim jacket and jeans, and a sleek pair of Nikes. Cormack wasn't alone. On his heels, clipboard on his... one arm marched Whiskey Blaze. Whiskey Blaze was dressed in a cowgirl-inspired outfit for her

performance later. The hard-working woman was somehow able to not only efficiently manage the lusty shamrock, but also put on one hell of a show three nights a week. Let's say we take the temperature down a bit here, eh boys? That bitch! The patron screamed, stabbing a finger in the air to point through Dermott's chest. Scratched me! Look! He turned his stupid face to to reveal too small pink lines on his right cheek. Dermott's eyes twitched. Hmm, said Whiskey Blaze, remaining level-headed as always. And what was it that you did, sir, in the seconds leading up to that altercation?

Oh, shut up. When I put about a thousand bucks down in twenties, I think I'm entitled to grab a bit of... The man did not get a chance to finish this sentiment, for he suddenly found himself dangling several feet off the floor, held up by a giant hand, squeezing the tight. of his head. He kicked out with his feet and grabbed uselessly at the muscular arm that held him. Oh my god! I-I! Stop! Ugh! Ah!

Dermit growled, which shut up the bastard. Hey, Smash! said Karmak. You've made your point now, man. Put him down, okay? Dermott's face flinched, and he showed his teeth. Dermit, said a soft, sweet voice from directly behind him. It's okay. I'm okay. Really? After a moment, Dermit exhaled and released his grip on the man's head.

He fell in a heap to the floor, knocking over a chair and banging his chin on his own knee. When he rose up again, shaking and disheveled, one of his front teeth was missing. I'm pressing charges! He screamed. Do you assholes even know who you're messing with? Cormac moved around and got right in his face. No fucking idea. Shifting aside his denim jacket, he revealed,

The Sig Sour P-226 at his waist. Do you, dumbass? The man looked from the handgun to Cormack's narrowed eyes and swallowed. You need to leave now, sir, Whiskey told the patron. Then she turned and waved up to the DJ on the balcony. And at once, the party lighting and music resumed. The patron straightened his tie and turned to go.

But Dermott let out a little grunt. Smashers right, said Cormack, glaring at the man. You are no longer welcome in this establishment, ever. The patron scoffed and shrugged, but Dermit whipped to glare down at his brother, one eyelid twitching. Seriously smash! Kormak said under his breath, before exhaling and grabbing the man by the elbow as he tried to walk away. What's more? He went on. If you ever show your face in Little Dublin again, I will personally shoot you in the fucking head. Is that clear? The man's eyes went wide. He nodded, then ran for the doors.

Jesus, it's one fucking mess after another. Cormack grumbled when he had gone. The dancer supporting Lotus had returned to the stage and sauntering to its center. She raised one slender arm and let her fingertips trail up the shining pole there. The patrons hooted in approval. And as Cormac pivoted to watch, the dancer hooked one ankle around the pole and launched herself in a fluid spin. Dermit turned and looked down at Lotus, who now had a wad of napkins pressed to her mouth.

They locked eyes, the giant with the bulging muscles, and this light and delicate woman, and in that moment, much passed between their faces in silence. But as Cormack turned to face them, Lotus averted her gaze, and a loud whiskey blaze to help her to a back room to clean up. Dermott started toward the exit to return to his post outside, but his brother swatted him on the arm. Hang back a minute, smash. Young Fitz has got the door, right?

Come with me. I could use you. Dermit followed Cormack to a quiet back corner of the club, away from the stage and blasting music, where ambient lighting glowed down on a dozen pool tables. Two men in black suits were shooting a game, and when they saw the brothers approaching, they exchanged a look, then straightened up, leaning on their pool cues. Evening, gents, said Cormac, coming to a stop across the table,

and pulling out a cigarette case. You two, enjoying yourselves. The men did not answer. but looked from one brother to the other as Cormack lit a cigarette with his lighter and took a long pull. Blowing smoke out of the corner of his mouth, he said. It has not escaped my attention that you have now returned to the lusty Shamrock for the third night in a row. The more sly and confident of the two men sniffed a laugh. So?

It's a nice joint you got here. Lovely entertainment. Good drinks. A bit pricey, though. Bullshit, said Cormac with a tired sigh. Look, I got enough on my plate right now without dealing with this, so let's cut to the chase. Raising the hand with a cigarette, he pointed with two fingers at the first man. You are Special Agent Tippett with the FBI.

As the agent's grin faded, Cormack turned to point at the other. And you are Special Agent Cohen with the ATF. The second agent swallowed nervously. Cormac took another puff on the cigarette, then nodded. And as you already know, I am Cormack McMurrow, also known as Matt Cow. And my associate here is my baby brother, Dermick McMurrow, also known as Smasher. And we are dangerous men. Now then, with that out of the way, obviously your agencies have been watching our family's business for years.

So the fact that you're showing up like this now, either you're trying to send a message or you're after an audience. Which is it? A heavy moment of speechless followed, broken only when the whooping of horny voices back by the stage filled the air. The dancer must have pulled off a difficult move, or perhaps an article of clothing. Exhaling, Special Agent Tippett set his pool cue on the table. All right then, you two are not the ones we need to talk to. Cormac blew another cloud. Okay, fine. You want to meet the queen?

Let's take a walk to the castle. In fact, if we hurry, tilting his right arm, Cormac checked the time on his Rolex. We might get there before she finishes her last cigar and heads off to bed. Without another word, Cormac spun and marched back through the room.

The federal agents exchanged another cautious glance, then looked up at Smasher. He gave them a little smile and held out one giant hand, indicating that they should go first. The feds followed Cormac. out, with the hulking Dermit taking up the rear. Despite the late hour, the borough of Little Dublin was bustling and lively as the four men walked out of the club. Dock workers in dirty

work boots and flannel jackets laughed and argued and shuffled about in groups on the sidewalks. Teens in hoodies and baggy jeans practiced kick-flips on their skateboards in the street. On the balconies of the apartments on either side of the street, older couples sat and smoked and watched the young folk below, with mingled annoyance and jealousy. And everyone present, as soon as they saw Cormack and Dermot approaching, grew quiet and nodded respectfully, as these two princes of the Celtic cartel passed by. Hey, mad cow! Called a teenage girl, smoking a blunt with friends outside a 24-hour laundromat.

Evening ladies, said Cormac with a wink, which elicited it a good deal of girlish giggling. Strings of little Irish flags were hung across the main road as they turned onto it, and many streamers of green, white, and orange could be seen in the businesses there. St. Patrick's Day was next week, and little Dublin always put on one hell of a parade. Cormack led them around another corner and down a quieter lane, where the high brick walls were coated with many layers of graffiti. A few recent spray-painted editions stood out, including the phrases, as fuck the Brits, and freedom for Ireland.

There was even an extraordinarily lifelike portrait of the British monarch's severed head. Glad to see that art isn't dead, joked Agent Tippett, and his colleague chuckled nervously. They came up to the docks, a creamy fog hung above the dark waters in the bay beyond. Turning left along the wharf,

Cormac flicked his cigarette to the ground as he walked up to the dark green door of a nondescript pub that faced. the water. Above its misted windows hung the establishment sign, which read, in gold letters, the Ballygub, over the painted image of a stone cottage on a green hill. Cormack opened the pub's door, and the sense of beer and cigarettes wafted out, along with the sound of a fiddle, but Agent Tippett stayed outside, staring up at the sign. "'What's the story with that name?' he asked.

"'Ballygub. Is that an old... Irish Gaelic word for something? Sure, said Cormac. What's it mean? Your sister's vagina. We going in or not? Cormac turned and disappeared inside. The agents followed.

Sniffing a breath of the sea air, Dermit bent and moved in last, shutting the door behind him. The Bally Gub had a far more mellow vibe than the lusty shamrock. And though the bar and the little tables were all full tonight, the clientele was.

was older, and content with quiet jokes and conversations over their pints. In the far corner, beside the dartboards, the fiddler was playing an old Irish ditty. Behind the bar, Old Fitz narrowed his eyes behind his glasses as he surveyed the two strangers in their black suits. "'Even it, lads,' said the bartender. Old Fitz's sideburns and ponytail were mostly gray now. "'Everything, all right.' "'Yeah, Fitz,' said Cormack, weaving through the

tables toward the back hall. Just some visitors for Ma. All right, nodded Fitz, leaning on the bar, and pressing a button beneath a counter with one thumb. From the floor above them, barely audible, an electric buzzer sounded. Oh, grand, Mr. Dermott, asked the barman, as the huge man passed him. Dermott nodded. The form moved into the back hall, past the bathroom, then up a musty staircase, which creaked with their every step. Coming to a hall above, Cormack walked briskly down to the door at the end, and gave it a quick tap before swinging it open and stepping inside. As the federal agents followed him into the personal office of the infamous crime boss, they were both taken aback by the austere nature of the room. It was dim and dusty, with wood-paneled walls

and not much bigger than the average bedroom. Two tall, thin Irish wolfhounds lay on a very large, very hairy dog bed in the corner by the desk. Although the dogs were resting and didn't look particularly dangerous, the smell of their fur was strong in the room. Behind the desk,

a woman with gray streaks in her red hair sat in a swivel chair, with her back to them, facing a window that looked out over the bay. She must have heard them enter, but she did not move, except to lean back her head and blow a stream of silver-blue smoke at the ceiling. The only other person in the room was a small and rather odd man, in the corner to their left, sitting on a stool with his legs crossed.

He wore only a threadbare robe, like something out of medieval times, and had faded green tattoos all over his exposed arms and legs and neck. The top of his head was bald and shiny, but he had, a wiry beard, braided and threaded with colorful beads. The man cackled when they entered, making Agent Tippett jump. Yikes! What the hell are you supposed to be then? I'm the druid, so I am. Keeper of the good book. He motioned with one skeletal hand to his side,

where an old wooden lectern held open a heavy antique Bible spread open. Tippett shook his head. You people are so weird. He grumbled, and took a step toward the old book, thumbing through a few yellowed pages. Can you even read this tiny text? With those crazy eyes of yours? The druid cackled a third time. Ah, there's druid magic in me eyes, good, sir.

Uh-huh. I didn't know pagans were interested in the Holy Bible. And I didn't know a man's Mickey could come in such a teeny, tiny size, countered the druid, pointing at the agent's crotch. Me eyes are magic, don't forget. I see all, including your side aren't there. Though, I'm armed as well, mind you. The druid twisted on his stool, revealing a holstered dagger at his belt.

Both federal agents tensed at this, but Cormac cleared his throat and said, That's enough, druid. Sorry for the late visit, ma. But you've got company. These are... Mairead spun in her chair to face them. Her blue eyes flashing violet in the fiery glow of her cigar. One of the wolfhounds on the floor looked up sharply as their master moved.

Blowing out another cloud of cigar smoke, Marade McMurrow said, Tippett and going. The bastards trying to make my boys nervous. She sneered at them one at a time. So what the fuck can I do for you then? Agent Tippett stepped closer to the desk. sliding his hands in the pockets of his suit coat.

Miss McMurrow, it's a pleasure to finally meet you face to face. She squinted up at him from behind the desk. Her face had grown wrinkled and her voice gravely over the years. But the fierceness of the woman's tone and expression was all the stronger. I asked you a question, Tibbit. Clearing his throat nervously, Agent Cohen stepped up beside his colleague. Ah, well, you should know, ma'am. that the federal government has quite a lot of incriminating information on you and your operation here,

he said, straightening his glasses. Drug trafficking, illegal gambling, prostitution, money laundering, bribery, to name a few. Back in his corner, the druid laughed. Marade cracked a wry smile. Is that right? She drew on her cigar. You go after me. You bring this whole city government crashing down.

You should know, fellas, that they have quite a lot of incriminating information on some very powerful people, including a few of your superiors down in Washington. Ignoring her threat, Agent Tippett continued where his colleague had left off. You could also be facing charges for multiple assaults, kidnappings, and... Glancing up over his shoulder, he looked at Dermit. Executions of quite a lot of your criminal competitors. He turned back to Marade. All that?

It would make a hell of a RICO case. A lot of agents would give their left nut for a crack in a case like that. I don't have time for your left nut tippet, said Marade. Why are you here? The agents exchanged a look. Ireland. Agent Cohen finally said. That's why we're here.

Ires here. The juror declared suddenly. Free Ireland. Tippett rolled his eyes. That island of yours has been in a state of civil unrest and violence for 30 years, he said, as if she didn't already know this. And as you are no doubt aware, peace talks are now underway in the city of Belfast. The United States government is doing everything we can to ensure that those talks go smoothly.

Morade did not hide her disgust at his words. Fuck the bloody beast talks! I figured you'd say that, said Tippett, turning to Cohen. We know, ma'am, said the ATF agent. That the Celtic cartel has been supplying not only funds, but also military-grade weapons to some of the most radical members of the Irish Republican Army. You are funding terrorists!

shouted Tippett. His eyes narrowed to meet hers. And you're doing so at a time when any IRA attack could bring an end of those negotiations and lead to decades more strife for your countrymen. Marade grinned and looked at Cormac. You hear that, boys? It seems these men are here to help Irish people. Surely that has nothing to do with ensuring a political win for the U.S. government's current administration.

Which could surely use one right about now. Ma'am. Agent Cohen began again, but Marade slammed her fist suddenly upon the desk, causing ash and embers to spring from the tip of her cigar. You don't have shite on me, she screamed. and both wolfhounds jumped up nervously. Because if you had even a scrap of evidence, beyond the prison rumors of some low-life thug,

I'd already be in handcuffs, and we both know it. So go back to your boss as a D.C. to tell President Clinton that Marade McMurrah says he can go fuck himself or find another intern to do it for him. Tippett opened his mouth to speak again, but Cormack turned to him.

You should really go. He said, as one of the wolfhounds led out a low whimper. Hasn't! Right fucking now! Agent Cohen didn't have to be told twice. Turning on his heel, he moved to the door, but Tippett stood in place for a few more seconds, smirking. You sure got some real weirdos on your crew, ma'am, he said to Marade. And you, he added, looking at Cormac.

Tell the DJ at your little club, that they can play something besides remixes of you, too. and the cranberries. Then Agent Tippett too left, and Dermit shut the door behind them. Once they were gone, Cormack and Marade both exhaled tensely, and the druid chuckled. Dermit remained silent and looked over at the dogs. One of them circled and lay back down. The other came trotting toward Dermit, who leaned to scratch her between the eyes. Nicely handled, Ma, said Cormack, walking over to look out the window to watch. watch the federal agents exit the pub and head down the street.

But those fuckers will be back. I know it, said Marade. Druid, check the book. What's the next shipment set to leave for Fennett? The eccentric little bookkeeper hopped off his stool and stretched, his knees popping, then turned to the Bible on its lectern. Shutting the heavy book,

he picked it up, flipped it over, and set it back down, upside down. Lifting open the back cover, he revealed the book's second set of pages, where a hidden ledger of meticulously recorded dates and transactions were written. Druid Magic! The bookkeeper declared, as he always did when performing this little illusion. The one could purchase a similar trick book in any magic shop. Let's see, did you?

We've a load of armolites and RPGs going out on Tuesday morning just before the parade. Hmm, no, too risky now. Push it, at least a week. She spoke over her shoulder to Cormac. And what about the trouble with the lone shark downtown? Have you all... Boy? Smash her.

I can see you in the reflection. Where are you snicking off to, then? Dermit had patted the dogs on the head and turned silently to exit the office, but now stopped, cringing as his mother called to him. One giant hand still on the doorknob. He turned his head to face her and Cormack, letting out a little grunt. His face flinched, and his shoulders jittered. This caused Marade to cringe and bite down on her cigar.

What's he saying? She snapped at Cormack. Just that he's meeting young Fitz for a drink. Is he now? All right then. But don't wait so long next time to pay your old ma a visit, hey? Dermott looked at the floor, nodded, then opened the door, and ducked into the hall. Back inside the office, Cormack turned back to the window and stared at the bay.

While I'm here, we got to talk about the docks, ma. What about them? We need more guys. Again. Mairead still had her sharp eyes fixed on the door as Dermott's footsteps faded. Huh? More guys? Take some of Fregles, boys.

Cormack shook his head. Nah, they're all working transport now. Ferrigo can't spare them. We've talked about this, Ma. For decades, Marade McMurrow had been using the docks to train upper men before promoting them to posts around the city and beyond. It was a good system. It kept her lieutenants loyal.

But they tended to take their guys with them when they moved up, leaving the docks short-handed and leaving Cormack to take up the slack. Pulling out his case, Cormac lit himself another cigarette. I got about 500 Korean TV sitting on a freighter out there, and nobody to haul them in before inspectors show up. Marade tried to take another pull on her cigar, but realized she had practically bid off the end in her irritation. Grumbling, she set it down in an ashtray on the desk.

I'll make a call to your Uncle Eamon. He'll send over a fresh batch of... We don't have time for that, Ma, said Cormac, raising his voice to speak over her. And if your little attack in Belfast goes to... down next month, they'll need all their boys over there for the fightin' that's to follow. We need to address this. Now! She finally turned to him, and her mouth twitched with a proud smile. My little businessman, she said.

I know you, Cormac. You don't come to your ma with a problem, unless you already have a solution in mind. So, how do you want to handle it? Cormac took a drag on the cigarette. The necks hailed through his nostrils. There's a new crew in town. I want to take it. shake them in under our wing." Marade raised an eyebrow. Irish? Nah, Russians.

Commis? I don't know their politics, Ma. But they're big and strong, and no one to shut up. Are they connected? To the Red Mafia in New York? Don't think so. Though the crew leader's got her brother, who's a big shot in London supposedly. The guy here is named Volkov.

Ivan Volkov. They call him the bear. Why? Kormack shrugged. Because he's fucking hairy. How the fuck should I know? But the brains of the outfit is the bear's wife. Zoya, you like her.

She's smart. No nonsense. And don't worry. I know they can't be trusted, but... Of course they can't be bloody trusted. Barade sneered, spinning fully around in her chair to look out the window with him. Only a fool relies on trust. Control.

That's all that matters. Cormac nodded. I can control them. Oh. And about that bookie, the Bulgarian, you were right. His numbers aren't adding up. He's been skimming all year. I'll take Smasher down there this weekend.

We'll handle it. As Marade stared down at the street, the front door the pub opened, leaking a rectangle of light over the dark asphalt. And she watched as a huge shape moved out into the night. What's going on with your brother? She asked, her eyes narrowing on the sight of Dermit as he turned left, not toward the club. and walked off along the wharf.

Smash? He's fine. No, he's acting distant with me, she said. Then, in response to Cormac's chuckle, more than usual, I mean. Been getting worse the last few months. He's fine, Ma. Cormac repeated.

Marade stiffened. Nah, something's up. She turned to her other son, the son like her, the one she actually understood. Put eyes on. on him. Cormack froze, cigarette hanging from his lips. Eyes on Dermit? He's our head assassin. Not to mention your... Are he serious?

Though there was no lit cigar in front of them now, Marade's eyes burned with the fiery glow anyway. As the fucking grave. After a moment, Cormack nodded, then turned. Bid her and the Druid a good night, and departed. Marade McMurrow turned back to the window, hugging her arms around her chest and squeezing. Control. It wasn't easy, controlling a business empire, a criminal syndicate, a whole city. But she did it every fucking day. She got out of bed. She came here to the office, and she put out a thousand fucking fires and lit a thousand more. She understood it. The game, the nature of power, the violence, the money, the delicate balance of it all.

And when, on the rare occasion something did crop up that Marade could not understand, that she couldn't control, she disposed of it, with one exception, one very, very big exception. Outside, the halting silhouette of her youngest son turned a corner into an alley and disappeared from view. And behind her office window, his mother, Baird her smoke-stained teeth in a grimace and snarled. Thanks for tuning in. If you enjoyed the story, be sure to follow or subscribe and share the show with a fellow horror fan.

I'll see you in the next one.