I don't usually talk to leprechauns, especially not big ugly bastards like the one I was looking at right now. 'Course he didn't look much like one of the wee people; over six feet and wearing leather and tattoos, he looked more biker than elf.
After staggering out of the pub at 2:00 am, I'd wandered into a field of clover by the side of the road. You know, to take care of things. Damn field kept movin', made it hard to hit. I wound up face down in the hay. When I stood up, there he was.
He flashed me a grin and said, "My name is Sean O'Malley O'Cracken O'Farley McGuinn, and I'm a bloody leprechaun, ye mortal spawn. Hokay, bub, what'll it be? Ye got three wishes and then I'm off to the pub."
I stared at him. I'd heard of mixing metaphors, but mixing myths? This clown sounded like he came out of The Arabian Nights, not the crate of Guiness I'd been working on all night. When I looked down and saw a four leafer sticking out of my fly, I figgered I was lucky.
"I thought only Genies granted three wishes, not lepra, leper, hic! Leap her cones!" Hey, it made sense to me.
"Not keeping up with current events, are we, Mr. I'm In a Bottle? The Brotherhood of Abominations, Demons, Poultergeists, and the Union of Noisome Spirits (BADPUNS, Local 666) renegotiated that contract over two centuries ago. Leprechauns now grant three wishes and Genies try to hide their gold."
Turning a bloodshot eye on him, I thought about that. If he was a leprechaun, the ugly sumbitch would say anything to throw me off the track. He was sneaky alright.
"That's a crock of shit." I declared. It actually came out more like, "assa crokkasht", but leprechauns are fluent in Drunkspeak. "No way are you gonna trick ME outta that pot of gold."
"Ah lad.", he sighed. "There's no pot of gold, I tell ya."
"Gimme it! I want all the gold inna world right here, budzola! Or I'm reporting you to yer friggin' union!"
"But I can't give you all the gold in the world, laddie! Almost all of it is owned by somebody, and I can't steal it from them! I'd have to get it from somewhere else. How about a Ferrari or some hot stock tips?" he pleaded.
I belched and glared at the two of him. I closed one eye.
"I don't care how ya do it, just magic it in here, fer chrissake! I thought you fairy types could do all kinda crap like that!"
He barked back. "Ye canna defy the Laws of Physics, Laws of Physics, Laws of Physics!"
I stuck a beer nut in one ear to kill the echo.
"Ya sorry excuse for a elf, I'll trade my other two wishes for a ton of gold, right here, right now!" I screeched.
"Really? All righty, then!" he beamed. "You have your wish!" And jamming his fingers up his nose, he vanished in a puff of smoke. I looked around. No gold.
I waited, still no gold.
"The sorry bastard cheated me." I grumbled. But as I tilted my head back to take a swig of beer I saw something glowing in the night sky overhead. Something big and getting bigger, coming straight at me!
Now I'm sitting in the clover savoring my last beer. No use runnin', I wouldn't get far enough anyway. All I can do is wait for my one ton solid gold asteroid to be delivered, right here, right now, just the way I asked for it.
"Jim Parnell, like most every other computer geek in America, works right alongside Dilbert (c) and Wally in Corporate Hell (The 10th circle that Dante didn't know about). He graduated from the University of Georgia with degrees in both Computer Science and Geology. A short, but painful foray into gold prospecting just didn't pan out, after which he decided steady eating was the better part of valor. He is a somewhat talented amateur musican (electric guitar, who'd a thunk it?) and is currently living in New Jersey with his lovely wife, who also holds degrees in Computer Science."
About the writer in his own words:
"Like most of the souls who contribute to 'zines like this, I'm doing it for the love of it, and because nobody's stopped me yet. I'm working on a couple of short stories to cut (or break) my teeth. Stay tuned, y'all...
"This pithy little yarn is pretty topical since it occurred right around St. Patrick's Day, and because in the space of a couple of days, we went from getting plastered by an asteroid in 2028, to a ho-hum miss of 600K miles or so. Ah well, sooner or later...
Jim can be e-mailed at firstname.lastname@example.org