Murphy’s Law
By Leslie
Fulton
Pete hated it when the dog threw up first thing in the
morning. It was Murphy’s way of telling
him he’d slept in too late. He got
ticked if Pete didn’t feed him by precisely 7:15 a.m. He didn’t care if Pete had been working the
late shift or suffering a crashing hangover.
It didn’t matter to Murphy one bit at all. If the kibble didn’t hit his bowl at the
appointed time, Murphy would trot up the stairs, his toenails clipping the
scuffed hardwood floor, position himself just to the left of Peter’s bedroom
door and ralph. Elegantly. A tight little package of yellow bile that
looked poisonous around the edges. He’d
then give a small, smug doggy smile and flop to the ground, waiting
expectantly.
Pete groaned.
He could hear Murphy’s exaggerated vomiting. He heard the thump as his 70-pound Golden
Retriever hit the floor. He could feel
Murphy’s intelligent brown eyes staring through his door, willing him to
stumble out of bed.
“You win,” he mumbled blearily, wiping the sleep from
his eyes. With a sigh, he hauled himself
out of bed and pulled on the boxer shorts discarded on the carpet. He picked up a towel and cautiously opened
the door. Murphy was usually pretty
precise about where he puked, but to keep Pete on his toes, he sometimes would
vary its location, perfectly positioning it for maximum squish factor.
“Jesus, Murphy,” Pete said, glaring at his dog. “This is more disgusting than usual.” He bent down to mop it up. Murphy’s vomits were so acidic they were
starting to eat away the mahogany stain on the floor. “What’s with the chunks?” Murphy stared at Peter and narrowed his
eyes. He looked pointedly at his own
barf.
Pete thought he’d dry-heave. Murphy has outdone himself this time,
he thought. I wonder what the hell he
got into? Betcha he’s eating the cat’s
poop again. He went to run a hand
through his shock of blond bed head but stopped short.
“What the hell is that?”
He bent down a little closer. Something humanoid was lying in the middle of
Murphy’s pool of vomit. It was about
three inches long. Ten fingers. Probably 10 toes but these were encased in
fine leather boots pulled over what looked to be green velvet breeches. The little being was wearing a white ruffled
shirt that was open at the neck. Its
face was pale, with pronounced cheekbones and a sprinkling of red freckles on
the bridge of its tiny nose. He – and it
was without a doubt male – had red hair that reached his shoulders. A tiny pointed green hat lay by his
side. He was definitely dead.
Pete was stunned.
He rubbed his eyes, thinking he was hallucinating. He was afraid to open them again but forced
himself to do it. The little being was
still there and still dead. Murphy’s
tail swished against the floor.
“Craig?” croaked Pete.
His roommate had to see this.
“CRAIG!”
“What?” answered a peeved voice. “Jeez, Pete, it’s 7:30. I don’t have to be at class ‘til 10. Leave me alone!”
“Bud, you gotta get out here. Murphy puked again.”
“What’s the big deal?
He does it at least four times a week.”
Pete could hear Craig’s voice drift back to sleep.
“No, man, this is serious. You’ve gotta check it out, okay?”
Craig’s feet hit the carpet with an audible thump. He had elevated his bed so that he could put
his desk underneath it. Craig preferred
his spaces small and cozy. He claimed it
helped him study, not that Pete ever saw him do it that much.
“What’s up, man?”
Craig came out of his room, scratching his stomach with one hand while
holding up his sweatpants with the other.
Pete pointed, wordlessly. He didn’t know what to say.
“What the hell is that?” breathed Craig, squatting
down to get a better look.
“I think it’s a leprechaun,” said Pete, dubiously. He felt silly saying it.
Craig peered closer.
“I think you’re right,” he marveled.
“But how did it get into Murphy’s puke?”
‘I think he must’ve eaten him.”
“But it’s not all chewed up.”
“Give the little guy some dignity,” flared Pete. “He’s obviously a male.”
Craig shrugged.
“Maybe it’s an ugly girl leprechaun.”
“Nah, it’s definitely a guy … listen, that’s not the
point. The point is I’m not
hallucinating and neither are you. The
dog has eaten a symbol of Ireland. A mythic symbol of Ireland. And it’s lying here, dead, in Murphy’s
barf.” Pete’s voice was getting
hysterical. All Craig could do was pat
him comfortingly on the shoulder. Murphy
looked on, indifferent.
“What are we going to do?” whispered Pete. His hand hovered over the pool of vomit. He was loath to clean it up.
“Call CNN?”
“No!” said Pete, scandalized. “They’ll think we’re crazy. I know – we’ll bury him.”
It was Craig’s turn to be scandalized. “Are you out of your freakin’ mind? We’re sitting on a gold mine here! All the networks will pay up mega-bucks for
this!” He stopped. “A gold mine,” he said excitedly. “That’s it!
Peter, we’re sitting, literally, on a friggin’ gold mine!”
“What do you mean?” asked Pete, still in a daze. He gingerly mopped up around the leprechaun’s
inert frame, taking great care not to touch him.
“Rainbows, pots of gold, the whole nine yards,
Pete. If Murph’s discovered a
leprechaun’s hideout, there’s got to be a pile of gold nearby. You can buy that car you wanted and I can get
rid of my student loan.” Craig peered at
Pete and grabbed his shoulder, giving him a light shake. “All we have to do is figure out where Murphy
found this little guy and we’ll be rich!”
“Maybe,” said Pete dubiously. “But do they hang around in groups?”
Craig shrugged.
“Dunno. I’ll go Google it and
find out.” He shuffled back into his
room to turn on his computer.
Pete stared at the leprechaun. Still dead.
“Guard him,” he said sternly to Murphy.
Murphy yawned and looked away.
Rustling through his drawers, Pete found a cardboard
shoebox that once held his prized special edition Adidas with the gold stripes
and the shell toe. He lined it with a
plaid wool scarf his mother had given him for Christmas a few years back that
he had never worn. He grabbed his
toothbrush cup from the bathroom and filled it with warm water. Tiptoeing back into the hall, he sat
cross-legged on the floor and gently picked up the leprechaun. With a cautious hand, he dabbed a face cloth
in the cup and began to gingerly clean the vomit off its body.
“This is surreal,” he said to Murphy. Murphy just stared at him. He was contemplating barfing again. Usually Pete didn’t take this long to clean
up the first round. He was now way past
his breakfast time.
“Did you find out anything yet?” called Pete. He could hear Craig’s printer.
“Uh, kinda. I
don’t know what he’s doing here though,” answered Craig from his room. He sounded distracted. “They’re only supposed to be in Ireland.”
“They didn’t come over during the Potato Famine?”
Pete heard a snort.
Craig emerged brandishing a sheaf of papers. “I’m not even sure we have ourselves a
leprechaun. Looks like we have a miniaturized
version here – they grow ‘em up to three feet tall in Ireland. And our guy is clean-shaven. They normally have beards.”
Pete scratched his head and looked at the little being
in his palm. “This one barely tops three
inches. Maybe it’s a rare North American
version.”
Murphy nudged Pete’s knee with a cold wet nose.
“Right,” said Pete absently. “You want your breakfast.” He untangled his legs and stood up, still
clutching the dead leprechaun. He
carefully put him in the box, placing his tiny arms across his chest. Luckily for Pete, his eyes were already
closed. Pete couldn’t imagine trying to
shut them. It would be like trying to
pluck a feather from a hummingbird.
“So, we’re keeping our mouths shut about this, right
Craig?” Pete shot a look at his roommate
who was still reading his Google research.
Craig looked up.
“You bet,” he answered with a grin.
“I still think we do a search of the yard though. I really could use the money. This little guy must’ve hidden it somewhere.”
Pete and Craig followed Murphy downstairs and Pete put
some kibble in the dog’s bowl. A
plaintive meow drifted through the kitchen window.
“Shit,” said Pete, striking his forehead. “The cat.
Geez, if Murph could catch a leprechaun, imagine what Frankie would do
with one. Death by torture.”
Craig looked stricken.
Pete almost had to laugh. He knew
Craig was thinking about the gold.
“I’ll go check,” he answered, scuttling to the door to
let in Frankie. He came back a minute
later, a relieved look on his face. A
gray Persian with inscrutable yellow eyes ambled in behind him. “All’s clear.
No damage. No mayhem. No mangled leprechauns.”
Pete took a deep breath. “Okay,” he breathed. “We’re going to forget this happened for
awhile. Let’s go about a normal day. It’ll give us some breathing space and time
to think. You going to class?”
Craig nodded, pouring himself a bowl of cereal and
topping it with chocolate milk. “Yeah,”
he said, spooning some into his mouth.
“I’ve got my ethics class at 10.”
Pete rolled his eyes.
Ethics. Craig. The words didn’t really go together.
“What?” asked Craig, offended. “I saw that.”
“Nothing,” muttered Pete. “Just remember – not a word. If you say anything to anybody I’m flushing
him down the toilet.”
‘Like you would,” scoffed Craig. “ So what are you going to do?”
Pete glanced outside.
The back yard looked neglected.
“Mow the lawn. Don’t want to get
on the landlord’s bad side.”
***
The lawn was unusually green for such a dry
summer. With a sigh, Pete started to mow
the lush growth, which was springy under his feet. He loved the smell of cut grass. The scent
took him back to his childhood. He
inhaled deeply, waiting for the green, slightly spicy hit to his nostrils.
Nothing. Pete sniffed again. It wasn’t grass. Bending down, he plucked a blade of the
mystery vegetation and squinted at it.
It was clover. Real honest-to-God
Irish clover. Pete examined it
again. One, two, three – four
leaves.
“No way,”
muttered Pete, looking around. The lawn
was covered in it. A honeybee buzzed by
his ear. Pete felt exhausted. He wanted to lie down on the green carpet,
fall asleep, conveniently forget this strange, strange day and start all over
again.
“Pete!” Craig came running down the path, tripping
over his feet in his excitement. “I’ve
found out some more … what the hell is wrong with you?” He stopped short, staring at friend.
Pete didn’t
say a word. Instead, he thrust out his
clover-filled fist at his roommate.
“What’s
this?” demanded Craig, taking the now limp greens.
“Clover, he
breathed. “Holy shit, Pete, this is
great!” His eyes darted around the
yard. “They’ve got to be around here
somewhere. This must be their stash.”
“Stash?”
asked Pete, weakly.
“Yeah,
that’s what I came out to tell you. I
found an Internet site from Ireland that claims there’s a clan of leprechauns
that lives right here in the States.
They’re a rogue group and nothing but trouble. Seems they’re drug dealers who grow a special
kind of clover they sell to other faerie creatures. Kinda like marijuana. Betcha that’s what this is.” He brandished the handful of leaves.
Pete
groaned. “No way. This is just friggin’ insane. I don’t believe it. Not for a second. What kind of site is it?”
Craig
laughed nervously. “Well, it’s a fiction
site. About leprechauns.”
“Oh, and
that’s your source, is it?” Pete
smirked. “Good one.” He gave the mower an experimental push. “Well, here goes their crop.”
“No!” Craig lunged for the handle. “C’mon, Pete,” he wheedled. “Let’s just give it a day or two, right? That’s what you said before. There’s no need to mow the lawn right
now. Just another day or two,
okay?”
Pete
shrugged. “Suit yourself,” he said. “It’s no skin off my back if I do it
tomorrow.”
***
Murphy was
barfing again. 7:20 a.m. Pete was five minutes late with the
food. He opened one eye and stared at
the door. “Murph, give it up,” he
called. Then he remembered.
With a yelp,
he jumped out of bed and lunged for the door.
Throwing it open, he caught Murphy crouching on the floor. Pete could’ve sworn the dog winked at him.
Pete bent
down and peered at the vomit. Thin and
yellow, as usual. Like gruel. With the exception of a tiny humanoid figure,
three inches long, dressed in white and green.
Fine leather boots. The face was
a little different though. This
leprechaun was older.
“Shit.” Pete slumped to the floor. “Murphy, what the hell is going on?”
“Damned if I
know.” Pete looked up, startled. At
first he thought it was Murphy talking to him.
It was Craig.
“Now what do
we do?” asked Pete.
Craig
shrugged. “Looks like Murphy has been
chowin’ down on his Lucky Charms.”
Pete looked
at him blankly.
“Don’t you
get it? The cereal with the leprechaun
and those gross tasting colored marshmallow bits?”
Pete shook
his head. With a sigh, he got up and
grabbed his kit from the bathroom. His
leprechaun cleaning gear. He snuck a
peak inside the shoebox. The first
leprechaun was still there and still dead.
“Sure you
don’t want to call CNN?” asked Craig.
Pete shook
his head. “No way, man. Not yet.
It’s still too much to deal with.
I’ve got to get my head around the whole thing, you know?”
Craig
nodded, his face clouded. “I hear
ya. It is a little intense.” He hesitated.
“Pete, have you been having strange dreams?”
“What kind
of dreams?” asked Pete, preoccupied with cleaning the leprechaun.
“Dunno, just
weird ones.”
Pete looked
at his friend who looked distinctly green.
“You feeling
alright, bud?” he asked, concerned.
“I’m feeling
pretty queasy,” admitted Craig. “And I
have a killer headache.” He leaned
forward. “And look.” He brushed his hair off his forehead. “What the hell are these?”
Pete cocked
his head, studying Craig’s face. “Holy
shit,” he marveled. “They look like
little footprints!”
Craig
moaned. “I was scared you’d say
that.” He traced the faint red path that
ambled across his forehead. “They kinda
burn.”
The two
friends stared at each other.
“Should we
mow that lawn?” asked Pete finally. “It
might get rid of them. I’ll go and buy
some grass seed.”
“Maybe we
should just pave the whole back yard,” said Craig grimly. “Get rid of them once and for all.” A cloud passed over his face. “But I want the money.”
Pete was
exasperated. “Craig, you don’t know
there’s any money involved.”
“There’s
always money involved when it comes to leprechauns,” said Craig
stubbornly. He leaned forward again and
whispered conspiratorially.
“There’s
something else, Pete.”
Pete raised
his eyebrows.
“The web
site.”
“What about
it?”
“It’s gone.”
“What do you
mean, gone?” asked Pete.
“It’s not
there anymore. Well, it’s still there
but it keeps booting me off, saying I’m not authorized to have access. Pete, there’s something weird going down.”
Pete had to
laugh. “Maybe it’s the leprechauns,” he
chortled. “Maybe they know you’re on to
them.”
Craig
narrowed his eyes. “I think they just
might,” he said seriously. “But they
don’t know what they’re up against if they think they can scare me off.”
***
It was a long night.
Pete had locked Murphy in the basement, oblivious to his howls of
protest. Frankie, the cat, was locked in
another room, meowing piteously. Craig,
muttering to himself, stalked the darkened house brandishing a nine iron. A bandana was wrapped around his head, pajama
bottoms tucked into cowboy boots. He was
wearing a REI headlamp that cast a spooky glow on the walls.
“Shut UP,” yelled Pete, frustrated. He was exhausted. “Craig, just go to bed, man. Nothing is going to happen.”
“Not as long
as I’m on patrol,” Craig hissed from the hall.
Pete
groaned. He was half-tempted to march
into the bathroom and flush the little creatures to their watery graves.
“Pete,”
hissed Craig. “Pete, you gotta come here
and see this.”
“No,” said
Pete stubbornly. “It’s four o’clock in
the morning. Go to bed.”
“Pete,”
whispered Craig insistently. “I’m not going
away. Haul your ass out of bed,
bud. You’ve gotta see this.”
“Just tell
me what it is and I’ll decide whether or not I’m getting up,” said Pete, not
unreasonably, he thought. He could’ve
cheerfully strangled his roommate.
“I think
they’re out there harvesting their weed,” said Craig quietly. He was standing just outside Pete’s door.
‘You’re
hallucinating,” scoffed Pete.
“I’m not
joking, man. C’mere and see.”
Pete
reluctantly got out of bed. It was
cold. He slipped on a sweatshirt.
“Alright,
Craig,” he said. “This better be good.”
Craig turned
off the headlamp and motioned to the window.
The moon was full and its light was streaming into the garden.
Pete tiptoed
to the window. With the cuff of his
sweatshirt, he wiped off a circle of condensation so he could see better.
“There’s
nothing out there,” he breathed, conscious of making too much noise.
Craig crept
up behind him. “Look,” he whispered in
Pete’s ear. “Just near that tree.” He pointed to a small Rowan tree in the
corner of the back yard.
Pete took a
step back. “That’s weird,” he
muttered.
“What?”
“That tree
wasn’t there earlier today. It’s new.”
“No shit,”
said Craig, his eyes wide. “Now look to
the left of it.”
Pete
strained his eyes. He could make out
movement – the clover being flattened, but nothing else. “What’s doing that?” he asked.
“Leprechauns,”
said Craig triumphantly. “And I’m going
out to catch me some.” He held up a
fishing net.
“I wouldn’t
go out there, dude,” cautioned Pete.
“You don’t know what they’re capable of doing to you.”
“Lead me to
their pot of gold, that’s what they can do,” smirked Craig. Pete was disturbed by the wild look in his
eye. “Those tiny little things won’t
know what hit them. Be my back-up?”
“Uh, no
thanks,” said Pete. “Personally I think
we’re just overtired and need more sleep.
I’m going back to bed. This is
craziness.”
Craig
shrugged. “Suit yourself,” he
answered. “Maybe we are imagining
things. Both those little guys in your
shoebox look real to me though. And I
betcha there are more of them out there.
You’re being a total wuss, dude. C’mon, Pete. Where’s your sense of adventure?”
“Whatever,
Craig,” said Pete tiredly. “I just want
to go to bed and forget about this for a few hours. Maybe it will all go away.”
***
Pete woke
up, for the third day in a row, to the sound of Murphy retching. Sighing heavily, he rubbed his eyes and got
out of bed. He flung open the door and
stared at his dog. Murphy stared back at
him, unblinking. Frankie, crouched at
the top of the staircase, stared at him too.
“You’re
disgusting,” said Pete. “And how did you
two get out? I thought I’d locked you in
the basement.” He looked down at his
feet. Another tight little package of
vomit. Another three-inch tall
humanoid. “Craig,” he called. “Murph’s left another present for us.” He walked over to his roommate’s door and
knocked. “Hey, Psycho, get outta bed. You’ve got to see this.” The door swung open at his touch. “Craig, wake up, man. We’ve got ourselves a third leprechaun!”
There was no
answer. Pete stuck his head around the
doorframe. “C’mon, bud …”
He took an
involuntary step back. Craig’s room was
trashed. It was never tidy at the best
of times, but this looked like a hurricane had blown through. There was no sign of his friend. There was, however, a piece of foolscap
impaled on a jagged piece of wood that had once made up part of Craig’s
desk. On it, in angry bright green letters,
were the words “GO AWAY”.
Pete felt
faint. He put his hand out to steady
himself, grabbing hold of the remains of a chair. “What the ..?” His mind tried to take in what his eyes were
seeing. Thoughts were whirring at a fast
rate, but nothing was computing.
Murphy
barked. Frankie hissed. Pete ran back into the hall, just in time to
see the little leprechaun leap up from the pond of vomit, shake itself off and
pick up its tiny hat.
“Hey!”
yelled Pete. “Wait.”
The little
being threw him a malevolent look that made Pete stop in his tracks. Without a second glance, it raced down the
stairs, followed by Frankie in close pursuit.
Murphy stood there, and with a visible shrug of his doggy shoulders,
bent his head down and lapped up his own barf.
Golden Retrievers, thought Pete resignedly in the middle of his
panic, they’ll eat anything. He
thumped down the stairs, following Frankie.
Murphy loped along behind him.
Pete could
hear Frankie hissing again, followed by a low growl in the back of the cat’s
throat. Pete could feel for the
leprechaun, probably cornered somewhere in the living room. Frankie was a lethal machine when he turned
on his hunting instinct. Pete had seen
him bring down bats from the sky. The
cat was always bringing mutilated treasures to share. There was nothing Frankie adored more than
biting the head off a bird, carefully tucking it in his cheek and spitting it
at Pete’s feet, a token of love and affection.
It drove Pete crazy.
“Frankie,”
he said in warning tone. “Leave him be.”
Frankie
ignored him. With a strangled howl, the
cat launched his furry gray body at the coffee table, where Pete could see the
leprechaun hiding behind an empty beer bottle.
Squeaking with fear, it nimbly jumped out of the way as the cat slid
across the table, claws extended. The
leprechaun jumped down to the floor and streaked across the room toward the
open French doors that lead to the back yard.
“No!” yelled
Pete, lunging to close the door. He was
too late. The leprechaun dove head first
into the clover and disappeared.
Pete stood
at the back door, his chest heaving. He
looked out into the back yard. It looked
perfectly normal, save for the new tree growing in the corner. There was no sign of the leprechaun and no
sign of Craig. Pete didn’t know what to
think. His friend had disappeared into
thin air, his bedroom trashed, a threatening note left in his room. There were no other clues, save for the two
stiff bodies lying in a shoebox in the bathroom. It was all complete chaos and
craziness – not a state Pete enjoyed. He
was a beer and pizza kind of guy – Monday night football and Friday night at
the pub with his buddies. Maybe a walk
in the park with his dog on a Sunday, followed by a latte at Starbucks with the
paper. Not this. Not two dead leprechauns, a missing roommate
and a garden full of illicit contraband in the faerie world, whatever
that was. And Pete didn’t even want to
think about the leprechaun who survived a night stewing in Murphy’s gastric
juices. Pete reckoned he was one angry
little man bent on revenge.
‘Craig?” he
called out experimentally. Nothing. Pete stepped outside. “Craig?”
Still nothing. Pete tiptoed
around the patio, peering at the clover.
He didn’t know what he was expecting to find. The sun shone cheerily and the wind rustled
the leaves of the new Rowan tree. Murphy
walked over to Pete and thrust his cold wet black nose in his hand. Pete absentmindedly rustled behind his soft
golden ears. “Where’d you find them,
Murph? Hey, boy? Where are the leprechauns?” Murphy just snuffled his palm.
Pete
considered his options but only for a second.
He couldn’t think of any. He knew
nothing about leprechauns and their habits.
Maybe Craig had just stepped out to the corner store to pick up a bag of
Doritos for breakfast. Maybe this was
all just a surreal dream that would end soon.
That was Pete’s fondest wish.
He snapped
his fingers. Why didn’t he think of it
earlier? Opening the shed, he pulled out
his mountain bike, first checking his pockets to make sure he had some cash. “Stay”, he said firmly to Murphy and Frankie,
as he closed the back gate. “I’ll be
back in a minute.”
Pete ignored
the red lights as he powered his way to the closest video store, a mile
away. He was a man on a mission. Panting, he locked his bike to a hydro pole
and dashed into the store. “Quick,
where’s your horror section?” he asked the clerk, a pretty girl of 16. Wordlessly she pointed to the far wall. Pete nodded his thanks, brushing past
her. Scanning the rack, he found what he
wanted, gathered them up and ran to the cash.
“You want
all these?” asked the clerk incredulously.
“Yep,” said
Pete, pulling a wad of bills from his pocket and shoving them at her.
“All six?”
she asked again.
“Yep,”
answered Pete.
“Wow,” she
said, bemused.
Pete
bridled. “What’s the problem?”
She shrugged. “Nobody has ever rented the entire Leprechaun
series before. They’re pretty cheesy
movies.”
“Listen, just shove them in a bag and hurry
up, okay?” begged Pete. “I’ve got to
go.”
She rolled
her eyes and held out the bag. “Top o’
the morning to ya,” she winked.
Pete ignored
her and strode out the door. Unlocking
his bike, he rode home in record time.
Throwing his bike in the shed, he ran in the house and set himself up
for a marathon movie session.
“I didn’t
know Jennifer Aniston was in this one,” he muttered halfway through the first
movie. “Geez, this is bad,” he groaned
at the end of the second one. “A
leprechaun in Las Vegas, now there’s a concept,” he snickered during round
three. “In space? Holding an alien princess hostage?” Pete started to laugh, but sobered up when he
thought of Craig. By the end of the
fifth movie, Leprechaun in the Hood, he’d had enough. “You must know your enemy to defeat them,” he
told himself sternly, popping open his umpteenth can of Coke. Steeling himself, he put in the sixth and
final movie, Leprechaun Back 2 tha Hood. “Oh for Chrissakes,” he yelled, throwing the
remote at the TV screen as the credits rolled.
“I’ve wasted a day of my life for what?
This isn’t going to teach me anything.”
He leaned over, turned off the TV then slumped back on the couch,
exhausted. Maybe a little nap would do
him a world of good. He had to rest his
eyes – they were killing him.
His dreams
were wild. He saw Craig, dressed in a
green velvet suit that was much too small for him, on his hands and knees
shoving clover into his mouth. Frankie
was riding on his back, his yellow eyes unfathomable as always. Murphy’s legs were covered with leprechauns,
his mouth full of the little creatures.
He, himself, was naked and embarrassed.
Nothing new there. He was always
naked and embarrassed in his dreams. That was a given.
With a
start, Pete woke up. There was an
incredible pressure on both sides of his nose.
He felt like he had a really bad cold and had to sneeze. He opened his eyes. And shrieked.
There, with
his tiny legs straddling the bridge of his nose and his arms akimbo, stood a
very angry leprechaun. It was the one
that had survived Murphy’s stomach acid.
Pete stared
at him cross-eyed, afraid to breathe.
The
leprechaun looked back at him flatly.
“Hi,”
whispered Pete, careful not to breathe out too forcefully. He didn’t want to blow the little being
across the room.
The
leprechaun narrowed his eyes but still didn’t say anything.
“Where’s
Craig?” asked Pete, attempting an ingratiating smile.
The
leprechaun stamped his right foot. Hard.
“Owww!”
hissed Pete, his eyes watering. “What
did you do that for? It burns!”
“I should
slap you about the head with a shillelagh, I should,” said the leprechaun sternly. “For all the trouble you’ve caused.”
“What the
hell is a shillelagh?” wondered Pete. He
wished the creature would get off his face.
The
leprechaun snorted. “You’d learn fast
enough, you cac ar oineach, when I hit you repeatedly with one.” He shook a wee fist.
“I don’t
know what the hell you’re talking about but I’m pretty sure you just dissed
me,” said Pete mildly. “Now, could you
just get off my nose and tell me where Craig is?”
“That friend
of yours?” scoffed the leprechaun.
“Thinks he’s so scary, he does.
He’s not.”
Pete felt a
glimmer of hope. At least Craig was
still alive. Maybe. The leprechaun referred to him in the present
tense. That was a good thing.
“Where is
he?” he persisted.
“Back at
headquarters,” said the leprechaun. He
hopped off Pete’s nose and sat down on the coffee table. “Where’s the cat?” he asked warily, looking
around for Frankie.
“Outside,”
answered Pete.
“And the
dog?”
“Same.”
The
leprechaun breathed a sigh of relief. “I
can handle the dog but the cat’s something else.”
“What do you
want?’ asked Pete, sitting up on the couch.
He rubbed his face. The little
footprints on the side of his nose itched and burned.
“The key,”
replied the leprechaun cryptically. “You
know where it is.”
Pete shook
his head. “Sorry dude, no clue.”
“Colm had
it. In his pocket.”
“Who the
hell is Colm?”
The
leprechaun looked affronted.
“My
compatriot. My brother in arms in the
LRA.”
“The little
guy who Murphy first puked up?” guessed Pete.
“No, that
was Seán, you tuilli,” spat the leprechaun. “Colm was one of our elders. Ciach ort, you’re a dim one!”
“Hey,” said
Pete, affronted. “Cut it with the
insults, already, would ya? And what’s the LRA?
The Leprechaun Revenue Agency?”
The
leprechaun wrinkled his brow. “Are you
daft?”
“Well, what
is it then?”
The little
fellow drew himself up proudly to his full three inches.
“We’re the
Leprechaun Republican Army, we are,” he said proudly. “And we’ll never let you forget it.”
Pete’s head
was spinning. “Kinda like the IRA?”
“Tá tú
glan as do mheabhair,” glowered the leprechaun, spitting on the table. “We don’t bother ourselves with human
issues. All you’re good for is ag
fein truaillaithe.”
“Listen,
bud,” said Pete patiently. “I don’t
speak your language, whatever it is.
Could we keep it to English? And
could you not spit on my furniture? It’s
pretty new. ” He held out his baby
finger. “I’m Pete. What’s your name?”
The
leprechaun hesitated then reluctantly shook his finger. Pete could feel a mild burning sensation
travel up his hand.
“Bain,” he
muttered.
“Nice name,”
said Pete. “Okay, Bain, what the heck is
going on? Why did you choose my back
yard to plant your stuff?”
Bain looked
startled. “How did you know about that?”
he sputtered.
Pete
shrugged. “Craig googled it.”
Bain smacked
his forehead with a tiny hand. “That
Google,” he growled. “Mórán cainte ar
bheagán cúise.”
“Huh?”
“It’s just
gossip,” said Bain, looking furtive.
“You can’t believe everything you read.”
“Well, how
about I go out there and mow it then?”
Pete was getting tired of dealing with the little creature. He moved to get up.
“No!”
squeaked Bain. “You can’t do that!’
Pete sat
back down. “Then let’s talk turkey here,
Bain. You tell me where Craig is and
then you and your little band of thugs get out of my back yard, how about
that?”
“Talk
turkey?” It was Bain’s turn to be
puzzled.
“You be
honest with me.”
Bain
sneered, curling a tiny lip. “You’re an eedjit
if you think you can mess with us. Never
ever threaten the faerie.”
“Whatever.” Pete stood up. “I’ll think I’ll let Murph and Frankie
in. They’re probably bored.” He looked over at Bain. “And hungry.”
Bain’s face
paled. “Now, don’t be doing that,” he
wheedled. He gave Pete an insincere
smile. “Why don’t you sit back down and
we’ll have ourselves a wee little chat?”
“That’s
better,” agreed Pete. He sat on the
couch.
“First of
all, I’d like to get the bodies of my friends back,” said Bain, eyeing
Pete. “They’re entitled to a proper
burial.”
“And you
want to go through Colm’s pockets to find that key,” added Pete amiably. He was starting to enjoy himself.
“Damnú
ort,” hissed Bain, glowering. “Go
dtachta an diabhal thú.”
“Now, now,”
tsked Pete, waving a finger at the leprechaun.
“I could pick up enough to know you damned me and said something about
the devil. Be careful, Bain. Not much separates you from Murph and
Frankie.” Bain cast a fearful glance at
the French doors. Both animals had their
noses pressed to the glass. Murphy
whined. Frankie just sat there,
indifferently licking his paw.
Bain
shrugged, trying hard to play it cool.
“Of course I’ll have to take possession of their personal effects. I don’t know what you’d want with them.”
“What’s the
key for?’
Bain crossed
his arms.
“Give it up,
Bain. What’s it for?”
Bain looked
around, fear etched on his face. “It
controls the door,” he whispered. “The
door out of here.”
“Where does
it go?”
“Back home,
another realm,” said Bain simply.
“That sounds
good to me,” replied Pete. “I’ll happily
give you Colm’s and the other guy’s bodies and the key if it meant you were
getting out of here.”
Bain’s eyes
darted back to the door. Murphy was
scratching at it and whimpering. He
wanted in.
“I might be
able to arrange that,” he said slowly.
“But it relies on your friend.”
“Murphy?”
Bain shook
his head.
“Frankie?”
Bain
shuddered. “No, not him. I meant the human one.”
“Oh,” said
Pete. “Craig. What does it have to do with him?”
Bain looked
shifty.
“I’ll open
that door,” threatened Pete. Murphy
barked, as if on cue.
Bain’s tiny
faced twitched. “Alright,” he said
finally. “Your friend doesn’t want to
come back.”
Pete
laughed. “Give me a break.”
“He
doesn’t,” insisted Bain. “He likes our
lifestyle. I wish he didn’t. He’s a bit of a bastún, if you ask me,
but the chief likes him, so there you go.”
He sniffed. “He doesn’t seem to
have much in the way of morals.”
Pete laughed
again. “Coming from you, that’s ripe,
Bain. You and your buddies are growing
an illicit substance in my back yard and yet you’re carping about Craig’s lack
of ethics. Kinda hypocritical, don’t you
think?”
“He’s a bad
lot,” said Bain darkly. “And we’d be
better off without him.”
“You talking
about me, Baino-boy?”
“Craig?” Pete’s head whipped around.
“Yo, Pete,
dude.”
“Where are
you?” demanded Pete, standing up and looking around the room. Craig was nowhere to be seen.
“By your
foot. Do me a favor and don’t move,
okay?”
Pete looked
down and yelped.
“Holy shit,
Craig, what did they do to you?” Pete thought he was going to faint. His roommate – once a strapping six feet tall
– was now Bain’s height.
Craig hopped
up on Pete’s running shoe. He shrugged
his miniscule shoulders.
“I asked
them to do it, dude. It’s pretty cool
being a little guy.”
“Get off my
foot,” ordered Pete, his face white. “I
think I’m going to be sick.”
“Don’t
ralph, man,” laughed Craig. “That’s
Murph’s job.” He jumped off Pete’s foot
and shimmied himself up the leg of the coffee table. Wiping sweat from his forehead, he leaned
against the stack of Leprechaun movies.
“Did you
actually watch these?” he asked incredulously.
“What a waste of time, man. Leps
are nothing like that.”
Bain
glowered. “Leps?”
“Chill,
bro,” snapped Craig. He gestured to
Bain. “He’s got a bit of problem with
me,” he explained to Pete.
“Yeah, you
could say that,” agreed Pete. “Listen,
Craig, what the hell is going on? What
happened?”
“Remember
when I woke you up last night and then you went back to bed? Well, I went out into the back yard to see
what was going on. There were a bunch of
leps running around like crazy things by the Rowan tree. They were harvesting the clover. One of them saw me and called to his
buddies. They all came over and swarmed
my ankles, knocking me to the ground,” explained Craig. “Before I knew it they were stuffing my mouth
full of clover. Then everything went
black.” He grimaced. “Man, it was pretty weird when I came
to. The chief lep was yellin’ at me and
I was trying to explain I was just protecting my turf. After awhile, he calmed down and we got to
talking. Ended up I had something to
offer him, and,” Craig smirked. “He had
something to offer me. Pete, I’m rich
beyond my wildest dreams. It’s
everything I ever wanted. I’m giving the
leps some of my business skills from my MBA courses and building them a little
empire. In return, they’ve lead me to
the proverbial pot of gold.”
“Except for
the fact you’re only three inches tall,” Pete pointed out.
“Dude,
that’s okay by me. I’m going with them
through that door as soon as you give them the key.” Craig leered.
“They say the faerie ladies are something else, man. I’m going to go and check it out for myself.”
“Are you
crazy?” demanded Pete. “You don’t know
what you’re getting into.”
“A lot of
trouble if you ask me,” grumbled Bain.
“Bí i do
thost!” growled Craig, glaring at Bain.
Bain shrugged and looked away.
“Since when
do you speak leprechaun?” asked Pete. He
felt kind of queasy.
“Since the
transformation,” replied Craig. “And it’s
not Leprechaun. It’s Irish Gaelic.”
“What did
you say to him?”
“I told him
to shut up.”
“Go
n-ithe an cat thù, is go n-ithe an diabhal an cat,” muttered Bain.
“I wouldn’t
wish that on me, Bain. Frankie’s on my
side,” warned Craig.
“What did he
say?” Pete was lost.
“May the cat
eat you and may the devil eat the cat,” replied Craig. “Our little friend Bain has a bit of an
attitude problem.” He turned to the
leprechaun. “Watch it, buddy,” he said
in a threatening tone. “I’m in pretty
thick with the chief. If you’re not
careful, you’ll be pulling sentry duty, and you know what that means.”
“What does
it mean?” asked Pete plaintively. On top
of a sore stomach, he was starting to develop a wicked headache.
Craig
laughed darkly. “The leps hate sentry
duty,” he explained. “Because that’s
when Murphy snaps them up like candy.
Most of the time, he eats them whole and they can tickle the back of his
throat to make him barf them up before they drown. Some aren’t so lucky. Like our friends Seán and Colm. They call it ‘Murphy’s Law’”.
“Do they
even know what that means?”
“It means
something entirely different in their vocabulary,” he glanced at Bain who was
busy studying his fingernails. “I don’t
even think they have a phrase for what Frankie does to them.” Bain grew pale, his whole body
trembling. “Do you, buddy?”
“Chan go
fóill,” whispered Bain, looking petrified.
“Not yet. It’s too awful.”
“What does
he do?”
“The usual,”
grinned Craig. “He bites off their heads
and spits them out. Lovely stuff. Tends to freak the leps out a little
bit. They’re not too fond of cats.”
“Can’t say I
blame them,” said Pete, nonplussed.
“So, back to
the point,” continued Craig. “Are you
going to give us Colm and Seán’s bodies?
Bain’s got a point, you know. You
can’t keep them in that shoebox forever.
Let them be buried by their people.”
“I guess
so,” conceded Pete. “But maybe I should
call CNN first.”
“No need to
do that,” said Craig hastily. “Just give
them back to us and we’ll take care of the whole thing.”
Pete sat
back. “Maybe,” he said slowly. “But what do I get out of it?’’
“What do you
want?” asked Bain.
“I want
things to go back to normal. I want them
to go away.”
Craig
studied his friend. “That can be
arranged,” he said. “Just bring us the
bodies, dude.”
“Do you
promise?” asked Pete.
Both Bain
and Craig nodded.
“Okay.” Pete got up off the couch and ran up the
stairs. Carefully, he pulled the shoebox
off his top shelf and brought it down to the living room.
“Open it
up,” ordered Craig. “I want to make sure
they’re both in there.”
Wordlessly,
Pete lifted the top. Both Craig and Bain
stood on tiptoe to look in. Bain let out
a strangled yelp and started to sob.
“Great,”
said Craig tersely. “Now pick us up and
put us on your shoulder. Open the door
and let Murph and Frankie in. Then take
us outside, with the shoebox, and put us down in the middle of the clover. Got it?”
Pete nodded
and held out his hand for them to jump up.
Craig shook his head. “We’ll burn
you,” he told him. “Just put out your
sleeve and we’ll take it from there.” He
and Bain ran up Pete’s arm and sat on his shoulder, holding on for dear life. Pete walked over and opened the door,
clutching the shoebox in his free hand.
Murphy and
Frankie barreled through the door, Frankie’s nose twitching. With a yowl, he launched himself at Pete’s
chest.
“No!” yelled
Pete and rushed out the door, shutting it behind him. The smell of clover was overpowering.
“Right in
the middle of the yard, dude,” instructed Craig. Pete followed his orders and carefully placed
the shoebox on the springy carpet of green.
Both Bain and Pete hopped off.
“What
happens now?” asked Pete.
“You go to
bed tonight and things will be back to normal when you wake up,” explained Craig. “Just like you wanted.”
“And what
about you?”
Craig smiled
at his roommate. “No need to worry about
me, bro. I’ll be just fine. Now go back inside and don’t look out here
until the morning. It’s better that
way.”
“Okay.” Pete hesitated. “You take care of yourself Craig,” he
said. “We’ll miss you.” He looked at Bain. “Nice to meet you,” he said politely.
“Siochán,”
nodded Bain solemnly.
Pete glanced
at Craig.
“He said
‘peace’”, explained Craig.
“Same to
you, Bain.”
“Now get
back inside and stay there until the morning,” warned Craig.
Pete ducked
his head, raised a hand in farewell, and walked back inside, locking the
door. He whistled for the dog.
“C’mon,
Murph,” he called. “Let’s get to bed
early.” He looked at his watch and
wrinkled his nose. It was only eight
o’clock. He hadn’t gone to bed that
early since he was about six. He trudged
up the stairs, followed by Murphy, and with a moment’s hesitation, Frankie.
***
Pete woke up
to the sound of Murphy barfing. Opening
one eye, he looked at his alarm clock.
7:20 a.m. “Right on schedule,” he
muttered, hitting the snooze button and shifting Frankie, who was sleeping on
his head, to the other side of the bed.
He yawned and stretched luxuriously.
Murphy ralphed again.
“Oh, shit,”
groaned Pete. Leaping out of bed he
rushed to the door and opened it. His
dog was sitting patiently, his head cocked, calm brown eyes staring at Pete. Pete looked down. There it was – a tight yellow parcel of
vomit, looking poisonous around the edges.
Pete peered closer. No
leprechauns.
“Good boy,”
he said to Murphy, ruffling his ears.
“Let’s go down and get some breakfast.”
He padded down the stairs with Murphy at his heels. Frankie, with a meow, jumped off the bed and
came too.
A pot of
freshly brewed coffee was waiting for him, along with the morning
newspaper. Beside it was a note. Pete picked it up. “LOOK OUTSIDE” it read in bright green
letters. Pete poured himself a cup of
coffee, picked up the paper, and did just that.
There –
where the lawn used to be – was a brand new patio made of weathered red
brick. In the center was the pattern of
a four-leaf clover. There was no clover
to be seen.
Pete sat
down in the lounge chair and looked around happily. He whistled for Murphy. “Now, this the life of Riley. The luck of the Irish,” he said out loud,
trying to remember some other Irish phrases.
He couldn’t. With a contented
sigh, and his dog’s cold black nose snuffling his elbow, he took a sip of
coffee, rustled open his paper and began to read.
The End
