The Leprechaun War of Bourbon Street

The first little green bastard showed up on the corner of Royal and St. Peter, grinning at Seamus with a mouth full of gold teeth.

Seamus O’Callahan, proud son of Dublin, current resident of a peeling shotgun house in Mid-City, and full-time drinker of the cheapest whiskey at Molly’s squinted through his drunken haze at the little bastard perched atop a float shaped like a giant alligator. The float rolled slowly like a funeral carriage, its riders tossing beads, plastic cups, and the occasional moon pie into the horde of sweaty tourists below. But this leprechaun—this smug little gobshite in green—wasn’t throwing anything. He was staring Seamus dead in the eye, winking, and taking swigs from a tiny silver flask.

Seamus took a deep breath, steadying himself. Maybe he’d gone one pint too far. Maybe the absinthe chaser was a mistake.

Maybe—

The leprechaun gave him the finger.

Seamus dropped his beer and roared, stumbling forward through the packed street. A trio of frat boys in LSU jerseys blocked his way, hooting at some woman who had just earned herself a string of neon green beads. Seamus shoved past them, ignoring their protests. The float inched forward, and the leprechaun waved his hat mockingly.

“Oh, you sneaky little shite,” Seamus growled. “Think you can just prance into my night, eh?”

He barreled toward the float, pushing through the crowd like a man on a holy crusade. A large woman in a feathered mask flung her drink in his face as he shouldered her aside. A cop blew his whistle. A saxophonist on the corner kept playing because this was Mardi Gras, and lunatics were as common as broken glass on Bourbon Street.

The float turned onto Chartres. Seamus, wiping rum from his eyes, pursued.

He caught up as the float paused behind another, waiting for a particularly bloated high school marching band to clear the intersection. Seamus climbed onto a streetlamp, squinting up at the alligator float. The leprechaun sat at the edge now, legs dangling, sipping from his flask.

“Come down and fight me, ya green cunt!” Seamus bellowed.

The leprechaun just smirked.

Seamus, unburdened by reason or common sense, leapt from the streetlamp and onto the edge of the float, grabbing a plastic palm tree for balance. The crowd roared, mistaking him for some planned act of revelry. A security guy in a windbreaker shouted, but Seamus didn’t hear him.

The leprechaun was right in front of him now, so close he could punch him. He swung. His fist met empty air. The leprechaun was gone.

Seamus landed hard on the float’s platform. Parade riders screamed. Someone hit him with a doubloon. A man dressed as a pirate yelled something about lawsuits.

Seamus groaned, rolled over, and stared up at the purple-and-gold lights spinning above the street.

Then he saw the second leprechaun.

This one was peeking from behind a paper-mache crawfish, eyes gleaming.

Seamus scrambled to his feet. “Oh, you brought friends, did ya?”

He charged, fists swinging, only to trip over a sack of beads and tumble off the float, landing in the street with an impact that rattled his liver. The crowd cheered again. Someone poured beer on his head. The security guy finally reached him, grabbed him under the arms, and started dragging him away.

“Let me at ‘em,” Seamus slurred. “They’re here. They’re in the floats. They’re mocking me.”

The security guy sighed. “Buddy, you need a cab.”

Seamus broke free, stumbling into the mob, determined to continue his war against the invisible enemy.

The third leprechaun was hiding inside a parade drum. Seamus saw him peeking out just as a marching band blasted by.

“Aha!” Seamus yelled, throwing himself at the drumline. The drummer, a very large teenager who looked like he could bench-press Seamus, smashed his sticks into the snare just as Seamus lunged. The resulting crack of percussion against his skull sent him sprawling.

He rolled over and saw the leprechaun laughing at him.

“Y’ feckin’ fairy,” Seamus muttered, struggling to his knees. “I’ll find you. I’ll find all of ye.”

The band marched on, leaving Seamus in the gutter. Beads and broken cups littered the street. He stared at the swirling lights, at the masks bobbing through the crowd. Music throbbed through his bones.

And then he saw the King.

High atop a golden throne float, resplendent in a purple velvet robe, sat the largest leprechaun yet. A monstrous thing with a crown, his grin splitting his face like a crescent moon.

Seamus’ vision tunneled. He knew what he had to do.

It took him twenty minutes to climb onto the King’s float, knocking over a tray of Hurricanes in the process, but he did it. He pulled himself onto the throne just as the Leprechaun King reached for a golden scepter.

“Not today, Your Majesty,” Seamus snarled. He grabbed the leprechaun’s head, twisted—

And yanked the wig off a very surprised old man in a royal costume.

The crowd gasped. The old man gasped. Seamus held the wig in one hand, looking at it, confused.

The old man blinked. “Are you robbing me?”

Seamus frowned. “No.”

“Then why are you here?”

Seamus considered this. His brain, marinated in whiskey and bad decisions, was slow to respond. He looked at the wig. He looked at the old man. He looked at the sea of open-mouthed spectators.

Then he did the only reasonable thing left to do:

He threw the wig into the air and leapt from the float, disappearing into the crowd.

He awoke in an alley off Decatur, lying in a puddle that reeked of beer, piss, and broken dreams. The sky was turning pink. Somewhere, a saxophone played a slow, mournful tune.

Seamus groaned and sat up.

The leprechauns were gone. His war, it seemed, was over.

He patted his pockets. No wallet, no phone. Typical. He wiped a crust of something from his eye and staggered out onto the street.

Mardi Gras was winding down. The party was nearly over.

Seamus smiled.

He could always start another war next year.