Business. Confidence. Haircut. Questionable Income Tax Payment. These were just a few of the phrases that would pop into your head whenever you saw Peter Brooks. He was the Irish embodiment of Wall Street, sort of. He worked for a small law-firm. He drank whiskey; neat. he par-took in all the activities that you’d expect of a wealthy, morally questionable white-collar man. He drank excessively. He used cocaine as if the Celtic Tiger had never ended, and he had a different woman for every night of the week. He lived the type of life that every young fella who had never owned a folder in school, dreamt of. He had buckets of cash and very few people within his circle WHO told him he was living a very temporary type of lifestyle. On top of this, Peter was exceptional at his job, winning case, after case, getting criminals and tax-evaders alike off of years of prison time. He was bad, but he was good.
Peter had built this lifestyle meticulously. He had generated an image, an image that he hoped would outshine any, and all other versions of himself. See, Peter had a dark past. As a young fella in Cork he’d earned himself a harrowing reputation. He’d undergone minor plastic surgery in an attempt to hide his identity, but some of the older players still knew exactly who he was. He’d been a heavy drinker and a nuisance. He was the guy who pestered pedestrians as they passed on Grand Parade. Asking for money, or just a moment of your time to hear a story. He appeared at nearly every bushing session possible, always noticeably older than anyone else present, and definitely the most drunk.
He had a reputation as a pathetic, irritating wino as a young man. What was worse is that he had a brand, a brand he wore with pride at the time, but it was now a reminder of the embarrassment he had become and of the dark path he had taken. Peter had been a lot of things in life, but above all else, Peter was the Sham With The Naggin Tattoo.