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Robert

Roman

Empire

RED BRICK ALLEY STORIES

The Killards Are Coming

Every damn day in Religion Class, Sister Anna Banana yapped about the Soviets revving up to start a nuclear war with the new president, Ronald Reagan. She said after the cities burned to Holy Hell, there’d be something called “nuclear winter” that would kill all... 

Double-Strength Demon Dogs

Fantastic Freddie was the only altar boy from the Red Brick Alley. He was always consecrating Ritz Crackers and trying to make us eat them like communion wafers. He light-fingered incense from the sacristy, and he blessed water from Old Lady Tully’s spigot...

Laser Loop

I couldn’t see over the tall green school bus seat except when we hit a pothole and I bounced up in the air like a Pop-Tart jumping out of a toaster. Nobody at Saint Augie’s could believe I was allowed to go. My first school picnic ever. I was good from the day I handed in my pink...

The Boy Wonder

How the Hell did Jaggerbush get himself up there? He was clawing his way up into the open window above the Science class door like a real-life gargoyle. The blockhead of a wooden mallet stuck out of the back of his Toughskins where his butt crack was. He wore three...

About The Author

Rob.jpg

Robert Roman grew up in Pittsburgh, PA, where he sold newspapers to cars from a concrete island. Read more→

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  • Robert Roman

My Own Private Ulysses: The Rottenest Roommates in Dublin


“Haines! Which of us did not feel his flesh creep!…Surprise, horror, loathing were depicted on all faces while he eyed them with a ghostly grin.”

– Ulysses, James Joyce


What kind of panting maniac would name a “Joycean Heritage Pub” after these two rat bastards?

Could Stephen have worse roommates than No-Name Haines and Back-Shivving Buck Mulligan? These jagoffs make Rosencrantz and Guildenstern look like Piglet and Eeyore.

And what are the signature cocktails of this pothouse:

The Gay Betrayer? The Ponderous Saxon? The Woful Lunatic?

This pair of pigdogs deserves far, far worse, but a Hemingway Half-Dozen Prose Poem is all our showrunner could gin up in these tricky-dicky times.

It seems history is to blame.



Haines appropriates.

Mulligan discombobulates.

Stephen masturbates.



Stay tuned for more malevolent misnomers.

Same mendacious time, same malfeasant channel.

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