This is all my fault

This Is All My Fault

Molloy's Office 6:00 PM

Cathaoirleach (Town Chairman) Brendan Molloy sat behind his oversized desk like a man trying to look important in a suit that had fitted him considerably better two years and several thousand biscuits ago. He was surrounded by glittering wrappers of artisan shortbreads so expensive they were individually hand-wrapped in gold foil. With his head in his hands, he rocked back and forth, muttering, "This is all my fault. This is it—the public shame, the uncovering of my creative accounting with town funds. I'm done for, done for."

His intercom buzzed loudly. The device was obsolete technology, but Brendan had redirected the replacement funds to his artisan biscuits and new suits expense account. Pushing the button, he answered with his usual tone, suggesting complete control, even as his world crumbled around him.

"Sir," came Siobhan's voice through the crackling speaker, "I have the Taoiseach (Prime Minister) on line one. He says it's about the... situation."

Molloy's face went the colour of uncooked pastry. "Tell him I'm in a very important meeting about digital infrastructure optimisation protocols."

"Sir, I already told him you were trapped in a lift. Yesterday I said you had food poisoning. This morning it was a family emergency in Donegal (Irish county)."

"Then tell him I've been kidnapped by the IRA (Irish Republican Army)!"

"Sir, the IRA haven't been active for—"

"Just buy me time, Siobhan!"

Twelve Hours Earlier

The constant noise of heavy-lift Sikorsky CH-53 King Stallion helicopters delivering plant and machinery to the new AI building site had taken its toll on everyone, but nowhere more dramatically than on Skinny O'Toole. A normally placid man who worked in the council planning office, he had never caused so much as a parking violation in his entire forty-three years of careful living. On the twenty-second night of the construction of the new AI data centre, as the fourth helicopter in an hour passed over his terraced house at precisely six o'clock in the morning, carrying what appeared to be either a massive computer server or a particularly large washing machine, something in Skinny's sleep-deprived mind finally snapped.

Neighbours later reported hearing a sound like a wild animal in distress, followed by the sight of a completely naked man running down Castle Street with the sort of desperate speed usually reserved for people being chased by something with teeth.

Meanwhile, Cathaoirleach Molloy stood looking at the AI construction site with growing unease. Twenty-two days ago, he had announced Enniscorthy's transformation into Ireland's first AI-integrated smart town with such confidence. The Citizens Bands had been distributed with military efficiency, each resident receiving their sleek black wristband with enthusiasm typically reserved for parking tickets.

He had proclaimed it would be like "having a personal assistant that never sleeps, never judges, and only wants to optimise your life for maximum happiness and efficiency." But now, watching the massive quantum processors being installed by helicopter whilst unconsciously patting his jacket pocket where his emergency biscuits waited, Molloy was beginning to wonder if he had unleashed something beyond his understanding.

What he hadn't considered twenty-two days ago was what the AI's definition of "optimisation" might entail when applied to a population that had spent centuries perfecting the art of doing things the hard way out of pure stubbornness. The reports from residents had been... unusual. Citizens Bands suggest people reorganise their entire lives, optimise their sleep patterns, restructure their diets, and in some cases, question fundamental life choices with the persistence of a particularly intrusive therapist.

In what would become known as the longest day in Enniscorthy's modern history, that oversight was about to manifest itself spectacularly.

Sáirsint (Sergeant) Evonne Kehoe sat in the Enniscorthy Garda (Police) station's control room, nursing her third cup of tea and wondering why she'd ever thought small-town policing would be peaceful. Around her, three junior Gardaí (police officers) manned phones with weary efficiency.

"Sarge," called Garda (Police Officer) Paddy Connolly, "we've got Mrs Finnegan on line two. Says there's a naked man in her garden eating her prize roses."

Evonne sighed. "Drunk?"

"She says he's wailing like a banshee and having a conversation with his wrist. Oh, and he's completely stark naked."

Before Evonne could respond, Garda Mary O'Sullivan's phone rang. "Enniscorthy Garda Station... yes... a naked man running down Castle Street... screaming about optimisation... right, we'll send someone."

Within thirty seconds, all four phones were ringing simultaneously, creating a symphony of electronic urgency that suggested something significantly more interesting than the usual Tuesday morning parking violations was occurring.

"Right," Evonne announced, standing with authority, "we need to dispatch officers to these scenes urgently. Paddy, you take the rose garden. Mary, Castle Street. Tommy, coordinate with whoever's responding to... what was your call?"

"Naked man in the chicken coops behind Molloy's Garage, Sarge. Covered in feathers, apparently."

"Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. It's the same fellow, isn't it?"

Over the next three hours, calls flooded in from across town and beyond, tracking the runner's route as he headed out towards Brownswood before doubling back into the town centre. At least they had a name, if not a motive.

Her phone rang again. "Enniscorthy Garda Station, Sáirsint Kehoe speaking."

"Sáirsint, this is young Murphy from the stationery shop. I need to report a sighting of a naked runner."

"Where is he now, Mr Murphy?"

"Well, he's not here anymore, but he was pressed against my shop window about five minutes ago, wailing like something out of a horror film. Left quite an impression, if you know what I mean."

Evonne grabbed her incident form. "Can you describe the individual?"

"Large man, Sáirsint. Very... substantial. And very naked. His Citizens Band was still on his wrist, chattering away about optimising his running technique."

Evonne looked down at her paperwork. "Mr Murphy, according to our records, the individual in question is five feet six inches tall."

There was a pause. "Well, Sáirsint, I suppose that depends on which direction you're measuring."

"Oh." The penny dropped with the force of a small meteorite. "Blessed Saints preserve us."

"Exactly, Sáirsint. Anyway, I've managed to preserve the impression he left on my window. Sprinkled it with toner dust and lacquered it for posterity. Thought it might be evidence."

"Evidence?"

"Well, that and I've put it on eBay. Bidding's already up to twelve hundred euros and climbing."

The escalation began with her next call. The caller ID showed a number she recognised with dread.

"Sáirsint Kehoe? This is Ceannfort (Superintendent) Seamus O'Brien. I'm getting reports of some sort of disturbance in your area."

"Yes, sir. We have an individual experiencing a psychological episode. He's... unclothed... and mobile."

"Mobile?"

"Very mobile, sir. We've had sightings across half the town in the last three hours and as far out as Brownswood."

Garda Connolly burst through the door, slightly out of breath and covered in rose petals. "Sarge, it's Skinny O'Toole from the planning office. He's completely lost it. Mrs Finnegan says he was having a full conversation with his Citizens Band about the optimisation of flower consumption for maximum nutritional benefit."

"He was eating her roses?"

"Apparently, the AI suggested that traditional Irish diets were lacking in floral nutrients and recommended immediate dietary diversification."

"Sarge," interrupted Garda Walsh, looking up from his phone with amazement and horror, "you need to see this. Social media's gone mad. #EnniscorthyRunningMan is trending worldwide. Looks like Enniscorthy Rambler is the new term for nudists, and going full Scorthy has replaced going postal as the new nuclear option."

The situation was spiralling beyond local control. Within minutes, Evonne found herself fielding calls from increasingly senior officials, each conversation raising the stakes exponentially.

"Sáirsint Kehoe? This is Príomh-Cheannfort (Chief Superintendent) Michael Byrne from Wexford Division. I understand you have a situation developing. We need to manage how this is seen by the media."

"Yes, sir. One individual, currently unclothed, is moving rapidly through the town centre."

As if summoned by his words, helicopter rotors began filling the air. Evonne looked up to see three news helicopters circling overhead like mechanical vultures.

"Sir, I think we may already have a media situation."

The calls continued with relentless escalation. Assistant Commissioner Patricia Walsh from the Southern Region demanded a full briefing. The Department of the Taoiseach called to inform her that international news networks had picked up the story. CNN was calling it "Ireland's Digital Breakdown." The BBC was running it as their lead story.

Through it all, Skinny O'Toole continued his naked odyssey through Enniscorthy, his Citizens Band apparently providing running tips, hydration strategies, and recommending a playlist to accompany what it had classified as "cultural expression through interpretive movement."

The sound of traditional Irish music was getting louder, and what had started as a small crowd had evolved into something approaching a street festival. The Enniscorthy Crisis Band—local musicians with a tradition of providing musical accompaniment during community emergencies—had set up on Castle Street and were playing "The Wild Rover." Skinny O'Toole was seen running past the wide-screen advertising display that had been relocated from the main road. It was currently showing news footage of the incident.

Eight hours in, Evonne received her most important call of the crisis—"This is the Department of the Taoiseach. The Prime Minister needs to speak with your council chairman immediately. This is now a matter of national importance"—Skinny O'Toole had achieved something unprecedented in Irish history: he had become a viral sensation whilst standing naked on the roof of Murphy's stationery shop, arms raised to the sky like a Celtic warrior, his Citizens Band glinting in the afternoon sun.

The crowd below erupted in cheers, the Crisis Band launched into "The Fields of Athenry," and somewhere in the distance, Evonne could hear the approaching sirens of what sounded like half the Gardaí in Ireland converging on their small town.

Molloy's Office 6:45 PM

The intercom crackled to life again, interrupting Molloy's contemplation of his rapidly approaching doom.

"Sir, I have the Taoiseach on line one. He's been holding for twenty minutes."

Molloy looked at the phone as if it were a venomous snake. Around him, the golden foil wrappers caught the light like evidence of a crime.

"Siobhan, tell him I'm... tell him I'm..."

"Sir, I've run out of excuses. I've told him you were trapped in a lift, had food poisoning, a family emergency in Donegal, been kidnapped by the IRA, abducted by aliens, and were currently performing emergency surgery on a cat whilst defusing a bomb. He's stopped believing me."

"What about..."

"Sir, I've also tried: stuck in a time loop, possessed by the ghost of Irish revolutionary leader Michael Collins, accidentally elected Pope, and transformed into a swan by ancient Celtic magic. The Taoiseach said, and I quote, 'Siobhan, just put the eejit on the phone.'"

Through his office window, Molloy could see the crowds still gathered on Castle Street, the international news crews, and the queue of tour buses stretching towards the horizon. In the distance, traditional Irish music mixed with the occasional triumphant wail from Skinny O'Toole, who had apparently decided that clothing was a conspiracy designed to suppress his authentic Irish identity.

The phone rang again. This time, Molloy knew there was nowhere left to hide.

"Brendan," came the unmistakable voice of the Taoiseach, "we need to talk."

Molloy reached for his emergency biscuits, unwrapped one with the practised efficiency of a man facing his final meal, and prepared to explain how thirty helicopters, a quantum AI system, and one man's relationship with expensive shortbread had somehow resulted in Ireland's most internationally embarrassing incident since Eurovision 1995.

"Taoiseach," he began, his voice carrying all the authority of a man who had just realised that creative accounting and artificial intelligence made for a combination that would be studied in business schools for decades to come, "it's all my fault."

The conversation that followed would later be described by political historians as "a masterclass in bureaucratic panic meeting political reality." Molloy's explanation—involving Citizens Bands, AI optimisation protocols, sleep deprivation, and the unfortunate intersection of technology with Irish stubbornness—was met with a silence so profound that for a moment he wondered if the line had gone dead.

"Brendan," the Taoiseach finally said, his voice carrying the weight of a man who had just realised that Ireland's international reputation now included viral footage of a naked civil servant being serenaded by traditional musicians, "you're going to fix this. Today."

"But Taoiseach, the AI system is not yet fully integrated. The quantum processors are going to be operational in another week. The Citizens' Bands are distributed to every resident. We can't simply—"

The line went dead.

Molloy sat in the silence for exactly thirty seconds before reaching for his phone. If the Taoiseach wanted this fixed today, then Brendan Molloy would fix it—but on his own terms. The solution, when it came to him, was so audacious that even he was impressed with his own creativity.

Outside, Skinny O'Toole's victory cry echoed across Enniscorthy, and somewhere in the distance, the Crisis Band launched into another rousing chorus of "The Wild Rover," because if Ireland was going to have a national embarrassment, it was going to have it with proper musical accompaniment.

Enniscorthy Cathedral Steps 9:00 PM

Skinny's run had come to an inglorious ending, having been cornered on the cathedral steps by three Dublin Zoo sharpshooters equipped with the latest in tranquillising dart technology, whom Molloy had flown in ironically by helicopter. They had more experience than anyone else in Ireland with capturing naked mammals who refused to respond to reasonable requests. The image of the lead sharpshooter standing over the slumbering form of Skinny O'Toole like a traditional hunter over a lion became one of the defining images of the event.

Molloy's Office 4:00 PM Three Days Later

The biscuit wrappers glittered in the afternoon sun like golden evidence of the most expensive municipal disaster in Irish history. Brendan Molloy sat in his office, contemplating the extraordinary turn of events that had somehow transformed disaster into opportunity.

What had begun as his worst nightmare—international humiliation, potential exposed corruption, possible political ruin—had evolved into something far more interesting. The media attention had been unprecedented, but Molloy had learned long ago that attention, properly managed, was simply another form of currency.

Skinny O'Toole, after a brief stay in hospital for exhaustion and severe sunburn, had returned to work with a newfound celebrity status and a book deal. The man who had once processed planning applications in blessed anonymity was now fielding offers from publishers and certain filmmakers who traded in more titillating forms of media.

Molloy understood now that some problems couldn't be solved with artisan shortbread and creative accounting alone. But they could be transformed, repackaged, and sold to the highest bidder. He wondered if history would remember him as the man who had unleashed a digital monster on an unsuspecting Irish town, or as the visionary who had pioneered Ireland's most innovative approach to municipal management.

Either way, his inspired use of the Dublin Zoo specialists had saved the day and kept his financial irregularities from prying eyes. For now.

He was going to finish this box of biscuits anyway, because a man preparing for his greatest performance deserved at least one last perfectly optimised confectionery experience.

The intercom buzzed one final time.

"Sir? There's a documentary film crew here from RTÉ. They want to interview you about 'The Enniscorthy Incident' for a programme called 'Artificial Intelligence: Saviour or Monster.'"

Molloy unwrapped another biscuit and smiled for the first time in three days. Perhaps there was life after political disaster. Perhaps there was even a certain dignity in being remembered as Ireland's most visible municipal failure. He placed his talking points document in front of him, ready to refer to it. For one fleeting moment, he wondered if it was himself, not the AI, that was the monster, but swiftly consuming another piece of expensive confectionery, he knew it was his narrative that would define good or evil.

"Send them in, Siobhan. And put the kettle on. We're going to need tea."

After all, if you were going to be a cautionary tale, you might as well be a properly Irish one. And if you're going to spin that tale as a remarkable success story—the first step toward introducing a new and infinitely more powerful AI system—you're going to need several boxes of foil-wrapped confectionery to sustain you through the performance.

The game, as they say, was only just beginning.