It was sunny afternoon in Dublin. Earlier that day a “friend”, Mowens, had dropped us off in a rough part of town after touring the Guinness Storehouse. We had no idea where we were but Mowens had to get the rental car back to Wexford so he left us near where he thought was a post office. We had to mail souvenirs back to the states because our backpacks were out of room. The post office we were near didn’t mail packages so we trekked down ghetto streets with Irish hooligans eyeing our Osprey packs. At the next post office there were no boxes. Pissed, we walked out the door and our fears that we were in an area that we didn’t belong were confirmed when some random woman said, “you guys probably shouldn’t be walking around here, this isn’t the best part of town.” Soon our badass takedown of a villain preying on an uptown cougar would prove there was no part of town we didn’t belong.
We were searching for a luggage store so Phillip could get all his Bushmills, Old Middleton, and Jameson whiskey back across the Atlantic since no one would ship it. Luckily, his hands were free to bash goon head since he had dropped all of the liquor off at the hostel (we had to sneak it past all of the Czech and Swedish girls who were ready to partay). We were having a hard time finding the luggage store so we asked someone for help. We followed her directions and as we approached the next intersection (see picture) a lanky guy with bug eyes came sprinting around the corner. By sprinting I mean that the woman wearing high heels and yelling, “stop him, he stole my purse!” was actually gaining ground on him before they got to the road. We were within about 30 yards from the purse snatcher but he was so slow that I turned to Philip and nonchalantly said, “I think that guy took that woman’s purse. Yeah, he did. He is holding in his hand under his jacket,” to which Phillip responded, “should we stop him?” Answering his own question, the hero of this story squatted down into a 3 point stance ready to spear this thug through his ribcage. When he finally arrived he saw his deathblow coming and juked Phillip. It turned out that while he runs a 9 second 40 he could move laterally like Chris Johnson. I closed up the strong side gap while Phillip moved in, stopped the thief, and took the purse. About that time two ninja leprechauns appeared out of nowhere, gave each other a high five, shouted “lets get him!” and showed their teeth. One put the shifty canine-like crook in a chokehold while the other grabbed his legs. Then, his buddy came up and said, “don’t hurt him, he’s a crackhead.” The leprechauns responded, “Where da gold at?” The ninja leprechaun let him go, not out of sympathy (ninja leprechauns don’t have feelings) but because the crackhead bit him. He shimmied away and scaled a fence.
At some point the woman got her purse back. She thanked the hero who walked away proudly yet unscathed. Well, except for the awful smell of the Dublin desperado that lingered on throughout the night. As the marshal and his sidekick walked away I looked down and the wind blowed something green along the sidewalk like a prairie dog. How it got to Ireland I don’t know. It was a five dollar bill.
Suddenly, 
