I don't own GTA.

I would've liked to see Packie's tattoo if I'm honest simply out of curiosity, I don't think he would've been sober when he had it; drunken decision lol.



Packie's door was shoved open so hard the door knob banged against the wall prompting a hung over Irishman to groan in pain and anger at whoever the noisy bastard was.

"…The fuck?!" Patrick snarled in a blind daze as his curtains were ripped open.

"Oh my fucking God," Gerald's voice sounded amused. "Saw you come in last night."

"Fuck. Off. Gerry!" Packie rolled over with a snarl and used an arm to shield his eyes from the light.

Gerald in fact, did not fuck off but stood, sniggering at the side of his bed next to the sick bucket that someone, probably Ma, stuck there in fear of vomit stains on the carpet. His older brother smirked and gestured towards the arm Patrick was using to save his eyes.

"Nice tattoo, idiot."


Packie looked at his arm.

'Patrick McReary' was written in bold, tall lettering across his upper arm; 'Patrick' with 'McReary' underneath it, letter under letter, so it could fit without going round his entire arm.

"…What the fuck?!"

Maureen McReary glanced at the ceiling from where she sat in the armchair; she shook her head at the language and wondered what her youngest son had gotten up to now.

"Jesus, I don't even fuckin' remember getting this done!"

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