Guy's been at the bar for a while. Someone bought shots. He's ordered food. Then he tried a girl drink. No one is saying anything smart. Jagermeister has been discussed.
Now it's his fifth trip to the bathroom. He feels like he's been swallowing surgical sponges.
He's standing at the urinal appreciating his headache and the rolling sea his CNS believes itself to be floating on. He ponders the nature of perception, each thought clear but insignificant. He'll never take reality for granted again. He misses wholeness. Solidity.
As that implacable wave of regret crests, he sees a wee little man wearing green who appears to have snuck up from nowhere. They look at each other, blinking.
"Well hello, lad," the little man says with a lilt. "There's no denying you caught me." He takes out a notepad.
"Your name and age, please?"
"Todd Johnson. I'm Twenty-nine. Why do you ask?"
He makes a note and says, "Just a formality, lad, just a formality. Now then. Fair is fair. It's the way of the leprechaun. You've caught me and you get to have my pot of gold."
"Aye. All I'll be needing is to bugger you in the stall there."
He relights his clay pipe. "Aye. Like a cockeyed sheep. Please sign here and here and accompany me into this stall, please."
So a big belt buckle and a little belt buckle hit the tile. There are sounds like two men moving a recliner out of an apartment until finally the stall door opens. The wee man leaves first, looking satisfied, his pipe still lit.
The drunk guy has lost his buzz, shaky in brand new ways. The wee man is walking out the door.
"Hey, wait! What about your pot of gold?"
The little man drops the accent. "Look, Todd. You're twenty-nine years old. Aren't you a little old to believe in leprechauns?"
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