Mouse-Trap: Haddonfield Irish Banking

Can immigration 'image' offer grand 'fiction' for the lines of Earthling weakness sportsmanship?

An offbeat immigration 'rhetoric' fiction. 

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I prepared my South Haddonfield (American Homeland) modest house (suburbia) for a visit by a special fashion-world figure named Shelbye O'Hara who'd been invited from Northern Ireland (UK) for a very-special diamonds-line clothing feature to bridge an American/Irish designer for a sports-culture marketing phone but wouldn't have anticipated she was a lone-traveler working invisibly for the IRA and using the (Interpol-relation?) blood-diamonds piracy-motions interceptor-field agent alias Mouse, for my Selfie-age readings of male/female consumerism cleats for the Ego. Follow along. I'm writing this down in a time-capsule to bury in my own backyard (for future-archaeology).

SHELBYE: This is your father's antique classic refurbished handgun, Satan?
ME (Mr. Amlan Satan): We moved from Algiers to America; this was his souvenir!
SHELBYE: I want it; I'll make-love to you if you gift it to me (please); I need it.

ME: For what, Ms. O'Hara?

SHELBYE: I'm intercepting a rogue against working against UK capitalism-agenda.

ME: What, you're serious?
SHELBYE: I need a market 'gossip' symbolic item for strike (my name's 'Mouse').

ME: You'll have sex with me?

SHELBYE: You're cute; I'm desperate; this is bad eco-capitalism IQ you want quiet!

ME: Jesus, this handgun has a back-story, Shelbye; my father was estranged.

SHELBYE: Will my (foreign) love offer an antidote for your (American) psyche?

ME: You do sound desperate (Selfie-like!).

I was to soon put my house in South Haddonfield on the market for sale and move to Brussels for a waffle-house eatery/dive venture with some money I'd made on Wall-St. during the 2009 mini-crash (Ford); Shelbye's 'Mouse-IRA' motion caught me in a matrix of immigration/migration decision-making vanities of the high order variety; I'd immigrated from Algeria to America. Shelbye had fallen for me, and I felt reciprocity (damn). We made love. I gifted her my gun for her 'Bond-girl' mission for toylands/fashion/eco-capitalism (rumor).

SHELBYE: Your daddy would be so proud of you, ok?
ME: I can believe in such a thing; and you're coming with me to Brussels (post?).

SHELBYE: If this diamond-fashion 'universe' figurine doesn't prove to be the Devil!

ME: You can beat her, Ms. O'Hara (Facebook-like!).

SHELBYE: That's lovely...you're a dutiful immigrant-citizen, Mr. Amlan Satan.

ME: You're my Rapunzel (Irish banks).

Shelbye found me a sentimentalist, and she made me feel like one (actually!). The fact that I'd suffered a knee-injury ending my football career as a small wide-receiver with aspiration of Notre-Dame TV culture framed in the Homeland, purchasing a 'gold-vanities wheelchair' to get-around my South Haddonfield property area after father passed, made me seem even more of an 'American computer-mouse philosopher' to Shelbye, who found heroics for eco-capitalism for the UK while in my neck of the Western world woods. I opened a waffle-house in Brussels...and Shelbye...well, she became my (actual!) immigration faerie-thorax (wow).

"Doing well is the result of doing good. That's what capitalism is all about" (Ralph Waldo Emerson). 

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"Money is everything" (Ecclesiastes)