Me and the Ukranian dropped off the motorway driven by hunger and a sense of loss. We cruised the empty mainstreet in the gathering twilight, past the three Centras, the four brown pubs and the blank hotel. We soon ran out of town, as the Castle loomed from fields. The hand painted sign said "Steak and Chips 22 Euro". As my name begins with "K", I eye-checked Igor and he darkly affirmed. We pushed in the door entering a gloom of food smells, heavy furniture and big people with red faces. We ordered, we watched the big people leave and a waiter make the coffee machine suck up a huge jug of blue chemicals. Through the open kitchen door we could not keep our eyes off the Big Bin and a very old grey woman in a shower-cap and apron wrestling with ceramics. When we finished we were 50 big ones lighter, a bit steep for 2 starters/mains/glasses-of-winey-stuff. We passed on the coffee. Igor looked at me, I looked at Igor. We both shrugged. Kafka Cowboys in Middle Ireland. We hit the road again, pointing our shiny black bonnet East, towards Dubln and the Urals. In the dim light from the dashboard, Igor smiled.
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