St Patrick's Society

A Black-Mirror style story about nothin but snakes in this town

Kat’s hands shook as she slammed her phone onto the kitchen table, her pulse hammering in her ears. She was pure sick of the whispers, the dirty looks, the passive-aggressive comments slipped between sips of cider at the pub. Destiny-Rose had been running her mouth round town for weeks, turning people against her, making her look like some kind of fool.

She took a deep breath, her fingers trembling. After thirty seconds of writer’s block, the words came to her in a flash of inspiration, flowing effortlessly as she typed:

“Nothin but snakes in this town. Jus me and the kids from now on”

Accompanying the post was a black-and-white photo of Cillian Murphy smoking a fag. It was a fitting visual, embodying a certain quiet defiance.

She hit post and leaned back. A few likes trickled in from the usual suspects. Then a notification popped up.

Debz: “U ok hun xxx”

Kat smirked. Debz was a real one, but she knew the rules. No details in the comments.

“DM me hun x” Kat replied.

“Will do gorgeous xxx”

The message came through almost instantly:

“Wats goin on babe x Whos the snake xxx”

Kat wanted to let it all out—to rant about Destiny-Rose’s filthy lies. She had spread rumours that Kat was desperate, that she threw herself at half the pub, and that she owed money all over town. But Kat had learned the hard way that you didn’t put things like that in writing.

“Cant say to much here. But I’ve had enough x”

She expected sympathy. Maybe a “some people are just jealous” or a “don't let them get to you hun”. 

Instead, Debz sent a link. “Try this site bab. They deal with snakes xxxx”

Kat frowned. What exactly did Debz mean by “deal”? Would they glass Destiny-Rose across the face with a bottle of WKD Orange & Passionfruit? Would they tell the Guards she sold vapes to 12-year-old’s? Kat tried both of those things. Neither achieved anything.  

The webpage loaded slowly—plain white background, clunky green text at the top:

St. Patrick’s Society

Helping those plagued by serpents find peace.

A grainy image of St. Patrick loomed over the page, stick raised, driving out a mass of writhing snakes.

Kat’s stomach twisted. “Debz… wtf is this hun? x”

“A solution pet. Just fill out the form xx”

Kat swallowed hard. The last time she was this angry, she had keyed Danny Farrell’s car after he got with her cousin behind the chipper, denied it, then called her mental in a voice note. This… this felt different. Bigger. 

Her eyes dropped to the website’s only interactive element: a single text box.

Describe the snake in question.

She hesitated, then started typing: 

“Omg where do I start. It's a two-faced gobshite. Been slithering around causing trouble. She didn pick it up off the ground. Her ma is a slag aswel...”

The typing went on for seven minutes, after which her finger hovered over the submit button.

This is stupid, she thought. But she clicked anyway. 

Nothing happened. No confirmation email, no automated response. Just the same static image of St. Patrick staring back at her. Kat let out a shaky breath, embarrassed by how her heart was pounding. She locked her phone and forced herself to forget about it.

An hour had passed with no word from the St Patrick’s Society. Kat was nibbling away on Meanies, listening to a contestant share an emotional backstory on Britain’s Got Talent when her phone finally buzzed. She didn't recognise the number. 

Request received. Standard cleansing fee: €200. Discretion guaranteed. 

The Meanies fell to the floor. Kat stared at the screen.

This had scam written all over it. She had been scammed one too many times before. Scammed by a Latvian man selling faulty dodgy boxes. Scammed by life itself—dealing with job rejections, dickheads, false promises, and that time she thought she'd finally found someone decent, only for him to vanish the moment she shared her Netflix password. Life had a way of playing dirty.

But what if this was legitimate?

She thought about Destiny-Rose’s manky face, the way she had spread lies, and the way she had made Kat feel humiliated. Kat took a deep breath. Karma was a bitch, but she was a bigger one. With a fierce determination, she opened her banking app.

The next day, Destiny-Rose didn’t post her usual, highly filtered morning selfie. No inspirational quotes layered over pictures of Tom Hardy, Marilyn Monroe, or Minions. No cryptic posts tagging herself in the hospital, with vague updates that left everyone wondering what was really going on. The silence was unsettling but Kat tried not to read into it. 

By lunchtime, the group chat was buzzing. 

Tina: Has any1 heard frm Destiny-Rose x

Linda: Not a dicky bow bab xx

Gemma: She hasnt posted in like 14 hrs wtf xxx

Ibiza: Deleted her Insta to. Weird xxxx

Rwanda: Shes gone off grid girlies xxxxx

By evening, the rumours had started. Destiny-Rose had left town. Some claimed she was a contestant on the new series of Love Island. But Kat was sceptical. Love Island? Not with those lips. Scarleh. What actually did happen to her then? She couldn’t have disappeared.

Kat’s hands felt clammy as she checked her messages. 

A new text from the society.

Snake has been banished.

WTF, thought Kat as she stared at the screen, heart pounding. This wasn’t a coincidence. Her own words echoed in her mind. 

“Nothin but snakes in this town.”

And now, one of them was gone.