Murphy's Law

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