---

The stuff had made the whites of Albert’s eyes go all jaundicey in recent months, his skin to redden and in places peel, and his arms shorten to such an extent he needed a big stick in order to reach things.

Will you be having another? asked Sharkey.

Even though he had no money in his pockets, Albert smiled gladly believing Sharkey was about to pay for the glass he now desperately desired in his future.

This one time.

And Sharkey placed a fat glass of whiskey in front of him.

Thanks.

Good man.

Clatter and bang of barstool as Albert struggled to get nearer to the fresh glass. Understandable with only around 35cm of arm left on him.

What are you doing there? asked Toby Comerford, on his way back from the loo.

I can’t reach my glass.

Where’s your big stick?

It’s on the floor.

Ah, you’re a terrible invalid, Albert Glendon, said Toby.

Toby picked the big stick up from the floor and placed it in Albert’s shrivelled paws. While doing this good deed, Toby took the opportunity to lean in closer and have a brief sniff of the man’s neck. He beamed light-headedly, as though revitalising himself.

What are you at? cried Albert.

Just a sniff.

A fury came over Albert worse than an itch on the lower leg and he raised his wee stumpy left arm at Toby and took a mighty swing from the stool. Like many of the swings he’d recently taken when brought to an inebriated rage, this one also missed. And Toby did not so much as flinch. Realising his arm was too meagre to reach its target, Albert instead raised up his stick-wielding other arm and it appeared he had every intention of clobbering poor Toby over the head with it when Sharkey sternly interrupted him.

Look now, we’ll be having none of that in here! You’ll be out on your arse.

He sniffed my neck, moaned Albert. He’s always sniffing our necks. And nobody ever does a thing about it.

Sure he isn’t harming anyone, is he?

Depends what you call harm.

Toby had been sniffing necks for some years now. A fondness for certain bodily odours, particularly those to be found around the neckline area, had turned into a full-blown olfactory compulsion. Most people knew of his personal troubles so they entertained this mania. Allowed him a sniff or two when he crept up behind them. But Albert Glendon was having none of it.

I feel harmed, he said. I’m just sitting here minding my own business, trying to reach my glass with these slighter appendages, and suddenly I’m having to deal with this nuisance at my collar with his sniffing. I mustn’t be the only one in this place who has had it up to here with the degenerate.

Toby flashed dismay in the face of Albert’s response. It was if his sensory obsession had never been challenged until now.

Wise up! said one of them at the end of the bar. Nickey Shields. The man has a problem and he’s working on it. Will you leave him be. There’s no harm in him. Quit your crying!

There was indignation in the way Albert slid off the barstool like someone sick of waiting for a doctor’s appointment and about ready to throttle the receptionist.

Enablers, he said, loudly. That’s what you are. The whole friggin’ lot of yous. A crowd of enablers. I’ll have no part in it.

Fine, grunted Shields. Clear off, you sissy.

I will. I wouldn’t be caught dead with a bunch of enablers like yourselves.

His big stick now became the typical crutch to assist in walking, and he lurched for the exit, but before Albert could make it out the door, Sharkey stopped him and said: Here, you owe me for that last one, Glendon!

Albert turned gloomily.

Ach, I thought you were giving it to me for fre—Alright, hold on a minute.
Albert performed a theatrical rummage in his pockets, knowing right well he had nothing left in there.

Can I get you next time, Sharkey? he asked.

I thought you wouldn’t be back with us being as we’re all enablers in here.

True. You are enablers. And all the rest. But I’m willing to take it back if you help me out this one time.

Alright, agreed Sharkey. This one time.

Albert stepped out onto the street. The sun was pleasant on the heads of the noon shoppers, but cut a burn across his own raw scalp. The shoppers were coming and going in ordinary life and unconcerned with him and his crippled form but it occurred to him that none of them looked entirely sinless. They too had the look of enablers. No doubt they had someone with a habit back home who they routinely facilitated. Or if they didn’t they had a craving of their own to support. Some nasty fetish they had yet to lose control of the way Toby Comerford had. And judging by the arms on some of them now, branchlets really, they were not far off from where Albert Glendon was. For as it turned out, he wasn’t the only one walking about with tiny arms. Stumps were now in vogue, it would appear. Though none were as stubby as his, for now, and this prompted a strange pride. There was, on the other hand, a reason for pause. In no time, there was bound to be dozens reaching out for help across the land, arms outstretched and wanting. And soon every arm in the county would be too short and there wouldn’t be anyone left with one long enough to punch sniffing Toby’s bloody lights out. He saw a wretched future for everyone if this was the case.

Albert hobbled up the street. Away from the pub. And into another.

This one time, he pleaded.

Alright, fine, I suppose.

Not a single botherer, freak, or fiend in sight. Not in this particular establishment. Though admittedly someone fairly stank to high heaven.

---

BIO:

Sean McNulty was born in Dundalk, Ireland. His work has appeared in The Honest Ulsterman, thi-wurd, and Epoque Press and he was a finalist in the 2018 Irish Novel Fair. A novella, What’s the Moose, Munter? appeared in 2023. He lived in China for a decade, teaching in Wuhan and Shanghai, and is now based in Dublin.