by Lewis Charles

That lying sack of shit leprechaun. If I ever get my hands on him again, I'll squeeze him until his eyeballs pop out, and mash them into jelly and sell the jelly at a local farmer's market. And when someone comes up asks me what kind of jelly I'm selling, I'll say "leprechaun eyeball jelly", and they'll think I'm kidding and try a sample and puke everywhere. And they'll be like "this is disgusting", and I'll say "that's because it's leprechaun eyeball jelly; 8-ounce jars, two for five, or three for seven-fifty."

If I turn a profit, great. It's really more important that I made it in the first place with the eyeballs of a leprechaun I hate.


That fucking leprechaun promised me that he'd make me a great writer, like Melville, or Hemingway. So, what do you think so far? Yeah. Well, now you know why I'm pissed.


When I first realized he cheated me out of my wish, I packed a sawed-off shotgun in a duffle bag, and retraced my path to his cave. And I found the cave, but instead of the leprechaun, there was a tiger inside. I'm pretty sure I said "oh my god, that's a tiger." I suspected it was the one that had escaped from the zoo, because I recognized its huge cock from the news. Anyway, I shot it to death.

So then I visited a friend of a friend who's in "pest control", and I promised to pay him a significant sum if he could guarantee that he'd find the leprechaun for me. He wanted cash up front. I paid him half, and then I didn't hear from him again for several weeks. When he finally got in touch by fax, he told me to meet him behind the BP gas station on County Road MM and Racedale Road.

When I got there, my friend's friend was sitting next to a big lump of something covered by a tarp. He pulled off the tarp, and instead of the leprechaun, I saw Josh Duhamel's badly bruised but inexplicably still smirking face. I pointed out the discrepancy, and demanded my money back.

He flat-out refused, and the discussion quickly became heated. What ensued was a shootout that culminated in the gas station exploding. I was lucky to get out of there with a few cuts and scrapes. My friend's friend and Josh Duhamel were not so lucky. They were closer to the epicenter of the blast, so their bodies, as often happens, fused together into a blob-like abomination that shambled around moaning "kill me, kill me" for several minutes before collapsing in the road.

Then the police got involved. They woke me up out of a sound sleep and asked me if I knew anything about what had happened out by the gas station. I told them that I didn't. And then they asked me whose eyeball was stuck in my hair. And I said, "are you actually asking me that question, or is that a what do you call it kind of question?"

The guards here slipped me a pad of paper and a pencil. They're not supposed to, but some of them really didn't like Win a Date with Tad Hamilton! It helps pass the time. It's also a constant reminder of how that little, green man did me so dirty. That leprechaun brought me nothing but misery. If I ever get my hands on him, I'll crush his balls into a fine paste and spread it on a cracker. And when the Queen comes for tea, I'll serve it to her. And she'll say "this tastes like leprechaun balls". And I'll say "how would you know?"

Because that'll seem like she knows what leprechaun balls taste like, already. Before this even happened.

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