"I can't believe Ma picked the weekend of a fucking BLIZZARD to have a heart attack," Murphy grumbled.
"Yea, I know."
"I mean, a delay I would understand. But THREE FUCKING DAYS…"
"I know, Murph."
"I mean, did it ever fucking occur to you to check the fucking forecast before you fucking booked a flight to get fucking stranded in fucking New York City?"
Connor scowled. "This isn't my fucking fault."
"Aye, so it's my fault we're wandering around in the snow with nowhere to go."
"Fuck you!"
The twins walked in silence for a while, occasionally shooting death glares at each other. Connor was about to suggest that they find a hotel when Murphy grabbed his arm.
"Con! Look!"
Murphy was pointing at a sign on a pub – MACLAREN'S.
"Pub! Irish! Beer!"
Connor saw that excited look in Murphy's eyes. "Murph, come on, we don't have time…"
"Fuck that, we got three fucking days! Come on, just one beer!"
"And another, and another, and another…"
"And what's so fucking terrible about that?"
Connor sighed. "Fine."