Scrappy Guey, Guey

So here it is readers, critics, anyone who cares:

The premise is as follows:

The year is 2010.

James Patrick Keegan has been hiding in Central Mexico for 10 years since his release from a prison in Northern Ireland.

He was sentenced to 23 years in prison for crimes against humanity. He got out on a furlow, was signed under the recognizance of his Parole officer, his brother Sean Francis, and within 24 hours was gone.

He settled in a small, obscure town in Central Mexico. His Spanish was as poor as his charm was great. His light brown eyes, dark hair, and boyish good looks carried him through the toughest situations, as it had his whole life.

For ten years, JPK stayed low. He worshipped on his own. He bought a small plot of land from an old Mexican landowner, and kept to himself. He was grateful for freedom but full of fear, and humbly careful. His resolve to stay out of trouble was fueled by his desire to retain his freedom and his daily prayers of forgiveness to Mary the Sacred Virgin Mother and his patron saint. Memories of his fight for the freedom of Northern Ireland by any means necessary were distant at times, but the dreams of past battles raged when the moon was full. He carried on. Abstinent from Alcohol, and out of touch with his homeland, JP was doing well.

On June 25, 2009, JP was visited by a young Mexican man who spoke English with surprising ease. The man told James that he was traveling through the area, and needed a safe place to sleep. As a compassionate Christian, and a man who had been in similar shoes so many times, JP agreed to take on the vagrant for the next couple of days while he got some needed sleep and grub.

It wasn't 2 hours that the visitor was asleep when the door opened slowly. JP was not a light sleeper. He jolted upright, and before he could get his bearings, he heard a pistol cock. Real IRA teachings are clear in this situation, and his instincts kicked in instantly. JP grabbed his Smith and Wesson and dropped to the floor. He crawled under the bed. As he lay there invoking help from God, he smelled the smoke.




The house was burned to the ground. Assailants must have used a high octane accelerant, because there was no hope. All he was left with was his pistol, his gold, a few hundred in cash (buried in the field behind his house,) and an assurance that this was not the work of the Police.

JP knew that his visitor had been killed, and that Los Zetas were involved. If there was one thing that boiled his Irish-Catholic blood, it was a cowardly murder.

The old Keegan was back....the man that the judge had deemed "unfit for civilized society." His brothers in arms preferred to refer to him as: Blind Method.

This blog was created to post my ideas

This blog will differ from my attempted humor blog.

I am in the process of trying my hand at writing a book.

I will post ideas, passages, and chapters on the site.

Hopefully someone out there will be amused.


Thanks,

Billiam Scully