Stranger than fiction

So, it's St Patrick's Day and I wish you well for it. May every stranger knocking at your door bring you glad tidings and a little luck. Now that we've done the traditional thing, let me tell you about a stranger who knocked at my door today. All of this, I assure you, is absolutely true. And best of all, you get to write your own ending.

'DING DONG.' (That's the doorbell, just in case anyone's not paying attention.) I open the door and there's a man, standing there, aged in his sixties, I'd say. He has a large overcoat - tweed, I think - and the cutest terrier I've ever seen. "A Happy St Patrick's Day," the stranger said, in a soft Eire accent. He puts out his hand and shakes mine. "Will you have a drink with me?" I pass, and watch as he pulls out a small, scratched and dented silver hip flask. "I'll take one for you as well then," he says, adding, "don't mind me - my reputation is as an honest man. I was a Hunger Striker, don't you know?" Needless to say, this is a stunner of a revelation - and I've no idea what response he's looking for. I remember hearing about The Maze and Bobby Sands on the news, back in childhood. "Anyhow, you know my reputation is honest." He wants to shake hands again, which we do, then he wishes me more luck and goes on his way.

You're the writer - what happens next?