Reilly was a slug. He is no more, though. You see, he got his comeuppance. My story begins a long time ago, a full three months previous to be exact.
“Morning, mum,” Reilly sang out, one wonderfully damp, drizzly cold morning.
“Good morning, Reilly,” his mother replied. “What has you so chirpy, apart from the fine day that is?”
“I don’t know,” her son replied. Mulling it over, he added, “Perhaps it’s because…”
“Because — what?” she asked, her head nudging a half-rotten cabbage leaf in his direction.