The Fall and Eventual Decline of Fungal
Fungal Maximillian O’ Flurtigan was half Roman and half Irish, but the twain never met, not even socially. The Roman side of him liked straight roads and the ruins of military encampments, the Irish side of him liked Guinness and people who could talk faster than a whistle tune. It was Julius Caesar who convinced him that he was half Roman, not face to face, but when he had to study him at school. One of his soldiers must have been his great grandfather, he thought.
“Best keep it to yourself. Better to be completely Irish,” his fellow drink downers in his local pub, The Thirsty Thistle, told him when he brought up his hybrid nature and his dual nationality. Part of him fancied living in a villa on a hill under a perpetual summer sky, the other part longed to master the fiddle and live in a white cottage by the sea shore. Sometimes he felt like an accident that did not wait to happen, other times like a corked barrel of vintage beer. That was the only interesting thing about him, really, as regards holding the attention of strangers. He stood at the bar, his hand grasped round his almost empty glass, late one evening, and became aware of his fall and eventual decline, like that of the Roman empire. His life would end, as all must, he knew. He hoped his fall would be slow, painless. A sudden thud on the kitchen window would disturb him one afternoon, maybe. A rough wind would blow him away.