Leprechaun in the Hood: The Musical: A Novel

by Cameron Pierce

  Marvin scuttled about, collecting the dispersed coins as people, some in costume, some in plainclothes, filed out onto the stage.

  “Whose idea of a joke was this? Whoever is responsible is fired. We’re days away from production.” Simon paced the stage, wishing he had a teacup to throw for emphasis, like Hitchcock.

  “What happened?” somebody asked, raising their voice to be heard over the jaded murmurs of the crew.

  Simon reached into his pocket and removed his cell. He slammed it against the ground, shattering the screen. “If someone replaced your phone with a plastic replica of your phone, what would you do?”

  They were silent, probably scared.

  “You’d ask for your phone back, wouldn’t you?” Simon said.

  Everyone nodded.

  “Right. Well, one of you has replaced our plastic gold with this shitty metal stuff. It’s too heavy for Marvin to lift out of the tree stump. Thanks for humiliating our star and wasting everybody’s time. Now, assholes, give us back our gold.”

  Nobody stepped forward.

  “Okay, then I want my hydraulic victims to step forward.”

  Seven men and women approached Simon in a slow and cautious manner, Genevieve with her hands on her hips, eyes rolling, mouth opening and closing as she chewed a wad of green gum.

  “I want you to run to Lippman and Co. and buy up all their plastic gold. Buy a new pot as well.”

  “You want all of us to go?” asked one of them. “I mean, we won’t all fit in one car.” Simon wasn’t sure who this clown was. He could almost never remember the names of the hydraulic victims, or most of the cast and crew for that matter.

  “You’re right. Half of you head to Lippman. The other half, stop by Lonesome’s and pick up a dozen large pizzas. Get some meat, some vegetarian, and a vegan for the dickwads in the room.”

  “Who’s gonna pay for all that?” Genevieve asked, rolling her eyes again.

  Simon reached for his wallet but remembered it was empty. Without knowing who paid for the doughnuts and pizza last night, his bank account was a big—possibly negative—question mark. So he stomped his feet, looked Genevieve in the eye, and said, “I’ve got a rehearsal to run here. You get the pizza and I’ll see that you’re compensated. But first, it’s my job to make sure you don’t look like an idiot Friday night.”

  Genevieve shrugged. “My part’s not that hard. If anyone will look like an idiot, it’s—”

  “GO!”

  The gold and pizza collectors dispersed. It wasn’t difficult to overhear them gossiping about what an asshole Simon was on their way toward the doors. In fact, it sounded like they wanted him to hear. Whatever. He was feeling ready to puke again.

  “I regret agreeing to be a part of this,” Trinie said.

  “Dude’s just an asshole,” Mark said.

  “It doesn’t excuse treating us like shit. Simon is so self-obsessed, he doesn’t even know our names.”

  From the backseat, Lucas—who was a last minute addition to the cast—offered an ounce of reason. “If we weren’t in Leprechaun in the Hood: The Musical, then we’d be among the poor fuckers paying to see it.”

  “Good point,” Trinie said, turning onto Burnside Bridge to the west side of the city, where Lonesome’s Pizza, a literal hole in the wall, was nestled across the street from Voodoo Doughnut.

  “Man, being on a Troma set was hell, but nothing compared to this,” Mark said. “At least they paid for the pizza.”

  “Why are you just a nameless victim, anyway? You should be headlining this thing.” Trinie said.

  “Yeah,” said Lucas. “You have, like, Troma experience. That’s more than Simon has.”

  Mark shrugged and looked out the window, smiling to himself, glad to have the support of his fellow hydraulic victims. “I like it ’cause it’s easy. If the play or movie is awesome, well shit, you were a part of it. If it sucks, who cares? Your role was so minor, nobody holds you responsible. Being a nameless victim allows you to die in front of an audience. And if you don’t get paid, there’s still the chance of getting laid.”

  “By who, tough guy?” Trinie pinched his thigh.

  Hopefully by you, Mark thought.

  Trinie was a brunette with a bowl cut and big tits. She was in grad school pursuing a dual degree in political science and environmental studies with hopes of entering local politics. She’d shared a psychology class with Mark when they were both at PSU as freshmen, but they’d only spoken a few times, mostly because Mark failed to last a year in college. He was kicked out for hacking into the university’s website and changing the homepage to a .gif of Porky the Pig stuttering, “Fuck the police.” He moved to New York after that, where he worked as a pedicab driver—since he wasn’t allowed to drive a real cab—and spent a few weeks in Buffalo to work as a P.A. and appear as an extra in Lloyd Kaufman’s Poultrygeist.

  He’d weaseled his way into an audition for the lead male role, but bombed so bad he swore to himself he would never audition for a speaking role in anything ever again—a fact about himself that he would never admit to Trinie and Lucas. After washing up on the shore of Poverty with the Big Apple’s other rejects, Mark moved back to Portland and scored a job with a software coding company.

  Writing code paid well and the hours were flexible, which allowed him to pursue his stupid fucking hobbies, like being a victim in Leprechaun in the Hood: The Musical. The experience thus far had been mostly a nightmare, but at least he’d reconnected with Trinie.

  He was happy to have met Lucas, too. He didn’t really understand why Simon agreed to cast Lucas since the script only called for six hydraulic victims, but Lucas was a good guy, was a horror movie and comic book guru, and any friendly face on the set of this shitstorm of a production was very welcome. Lucas even owned his own comic book shop in town. Occasionally, he’d bring a comic to rehearsal for Mark to borrow, and most of the time, Mark liked them. Most recently had been Uzumaki, which was some real fucked-up shit. Uzumaki was the first and only manga Mark had read, but he liked it. Mark also appreciated that Lucas had done artwork for some of the major studios back in the eighties and early nineties, or so he said.

  Above all, what Lucas and Trinie had was what Mark valued in people. They actively contributed to their chosen field of interest. He didn’t care what they were into or how small their contribution was. All that mattered was that they did something with their lives that in some way aided or influenced other people. Trinie would do this by entering local politics (her passion for politics was even more appealing to Mark than her bombshell tits). Lucas had done it. Hell, even Simon, arguably the biggest asshole Mark had ever met, was doing something with his life. If only Mark could find a way to make his own footprint in the world. Until then, he’d be a failure by his own standards. He’d be a nice guy with a decent job, maybe, but still a failure.

  Trinie finally found a parking space and then posed the million dollar question. “So how do we want to divide up the cost of the pizzas?”

  Mark could feel Lucas shrink behind him. “I got it,” Mark said. Lucas’s relief was palpable. “My treat.”

  “Are you sure?” Trinie asked, but that she loosened her death grip on the steering wheel suggested that she shared Lucas’s relief.

  “It’s no trouble at all,” Mark said, and then dared to add, “If you’ll go out with me after rehearsal tonight.”

  Trinie pursed her lips in a devious but noncommittal smile.

  “Do. It. Do. It. Do. It,” Lucas chanted in the backseat.

  “Fine, but only for you, Lucas,” Trinie said.

  Lucas leaned forward and raised his hand to high-five Mark, who opened his door and hopped out of the car, a shit-eating grin splayed across his face so wide he could’ve passed for the Cheshire Cat’s dumb jock doppelgänger.

  Back at the theater, Simon and Byron were having it out. It’d started when Byron criticized Simon’s handling of the gold crisis. Simon held his tongue. He said nothing for a moment, then asked f
or everyone to pick up at the top of the “Bitches Be Spooky” number. Simon restrained a smile as Byron’s face turned to ash.

  “Bitches Be Spooky” was the one song Byron had failed to memorize. No matter how he tried, he just couldn’t do it. The scene, which took place about halfway through the performance, was set in a strip club. Borrowing the “if a leprechaun bites you, you turn into a leprechaun” rule from Leprechaun 3, they’d written a scene where the leprechaun bites a handful of strippers, transforming each of them into nude lady leprechauns, who quickly lay waste to the gentlemen in the club. That was Byron’s cue to take the stage and sing “Bitches Be Spooky” while pole-dancing for the leprechaun ladies, who heckle and taunt him. Eventually, they charge the stage and pull down his pants, cutting the performance short and leaving Byron no option but to flee pants-less out of the strip club.

  Either because he had trouble pole-dancing while singing, or because he got nervous with his junk flopping around onstage while rapping for a handful of naked women, Byron consistently failed to remember all the lyrics. Most days, Simon sympathized, but today, he’d had enough.

  “Cut!” he said, for the umpteenth time.

  “What this time?” Byron asked. “I remembered the words. I had it dialed.”

  “You sounded like shit.”

  “Come again?”

  “You’re a shitty rapper, Byron.”

  “You’re not much of a director.”

  “You wouldn’t be here at all if it wasn’t for me. I just wanted to help you out, seeing as you’ve done shit-all for your so-called ‘hip hop career’ yourself.”

  “If that’s what this is, you doing me a favor, then fuck you and fuck this play.” Byron hopped off the stage, heading toward the exit.

  “It’s not a play, it’s a musical!” Simon said.

  But Byron did not pause to respond. He walked right out the door.

  Marvin leapt off the stage, landed in a roll, bounced to his feet, and ran after Byron before Simon had a chance to stop him.

  He hoped for a moment that Marvin was chasing down Byron to bring him back, perhaps tell him to shape up and get serious, get his head in the game, but then Simon saw that this was not the case. Marvin had hoisted his tiny middle fingers and was saluting Simon with both of them as he headed out the door. Simon had just lost his two leads—and the only two people in the city who still cared to hang out with him.

  When Mark, Trinie, and Lucas returned to the theater, they learned of the drama they’d missed. Simon had apparently fled the theater after a huge blowout with Byron. Instead of heading home, everyone had stuck around. Even without the two lead actors, they managed to run through the majority of the musical.

  “Everything’s running smoothly,” Mark said to Trinie as the two of them worked backstage, crafting a cardboard Impala to be used in their death scene.

  “It’s going better,” she said.

  Perhaps Friday night wouldn’t be so bad after all, as long as the guy in charge wasn’t around to screw everything up.

  “Don’t take it personally,” Marvin said, cracking the tab on a beer. “He didn’t mean that. To be honest, I think you’re a really good rapper.”

  “Shit, maybe Simon’s right. I don’t have a chance in hell at a hip hop career,” Byron said.

  “No, man. You’ve got talent. Don’t let anyone tell you different.”

  Byron grabbed a beer from the twenty-four pack at his feet. He had to piss, but he remembered the doughnuts in the toilet, so he sank back into the sofa, set on holding it.

  “I gotta ask you something,” Marvin said.

  Byron tensed up. Shit. He’d suspected Marvin might be gay. Would the little dude ask him out? Did he want to wank each other off? “I’m listening,” Byron said.

  “You’ve got good taste. So how in the hell do you believe Jason X is actually a better film than Leprechaun 4: In Space?”

  Byron tilted his head back and made a prolonged “aaahhhh” sound, like “you got me that time, old dog.”

  “I’ll tell you what. We’ll watch them back to back and I’ll show you why Jason X is better.” Byron stood and scanned his wall-to-wall movie collection for the films.

  “You won’t show me nothin’,” Marvin said. “I mean, in the third act of one you’re introduced to Super Jason, who looks dumb as balls. In the third act of the other, you get not one but two kickass monsters: the giant leprechaun and Mitten-Spider. Leprechaun 4: In Space is gonzo.”

  “Yeah, I agree. It’s a weird-ass movie. Doesn’t change my opinion. Jason X is better. And scarier.”

  “Put it on. Here we go,” Marvin said, crushing his empty beer can and reaching for another.

  “I got a better idea,” Byron said. “Hang on a minute.” He vanished into his bedroom and returned carrying a large—and judging by his grunts and wobbly knees, heavy—television. “There’s only one way to settle this.”

  Marvin covered his open smiling mouth like he couldn’t believe what he’d just seen.

  “That’s right.” Byron bobbed his head like he’d just swished a three-pointer. “Head-to-head. Simultaneous viewing.” He lifted the television onto the other television.

  Marvin checked the movie boxes. “Leprechaun 4: In Space is ninety-five minutes. Jason X is ninety-three. They’ll end at almost exactly the same time.”

  “Perfect,” Byron said, plugging in the second television.

  Maybe he’d lost his best friend, but he felt he was in the process of making another.

  In his dream, Simon was attending the Broadway premiere of Leprechaun in the Hood: The Musical. In this new production Marvin had been replaced by Warwick Davis himself. The actor had taken singing classes just to be able to reprise his role onstage. The crowd was massive, the buzz had reached a fever pitch after the show’s initial Portland run had been so successful, breaking records and garnering a year of extensions. Kay was on his arm, wearing a black designer dress, her earrings tiny silver shamrocks.

  As they walked down the red carpet, a reporter stopped Simon and asked him what he thought about his success. The reporter had bright red lipstick, white teeth and a low-cut dress, so he deigned to answer her on his big night.

  “Well it’s amazing, I never would have guessed that I could come so far. I used to sleep on my friends’ floors, you know.”

  “Oh, I’ve heard,” the reporter said, her smile turning vicious, her red lipstick now a dark green, her teeth crooked and rotted. “And what are your thoughts about the curse of the leprechaun?” she said in an Irish accent.

  Simon was just about to ask her what she meant before he awoke.

  Fuck, not again, Simon thought, waking with a familiar throb in his lower back—the pain that only came from a night sleeping on bare floors.

  He couldn’t open his eyes, didn’t want to face the shame of waking up on someone’s floor again. He could already feel the pizza grease seeping into his scalp. Wait a minute, I don’t have any friends, he thought, recalling last night’s walk-off.

  Forcing himself to lift his eyelids, he was greeted by an unfamiliar ceiling. With two fingers he touched the back of his head, searching for the source of the wetness. His fingers returned dark with sticky, coagulating blood.

  He remembered scraping his head against Byron’s faucet, but had it really done that much damage? Besides the familiar dull throb of a hangover, his head didn’t hurt any worse than usual.

  The tide of half-sleep ebbing away, he sat up and began to wonder whose apartment he was in. It wasn’t Byron’s, and though he’d never been to Marvin’s place, he doubted that it would be this tastefully furnished. Or this clean.

  It was a studio apartment—from the looks of the high ceilings it was one of those trendy lofts built out of an old warehouse. He wondered who it belonged to and how he got there. Had he gotten lucky? Was he in Kay’s apartment, the blood at his scalp a wound sustained during coital bliss?

  Looking behind him, he got the answer to at least one of his questi
ons, but he didn’t like it.

  Genevieve’s face was paler than usual, probably because her head had been severed from her body and impaled on one of the corners of her four-poster bed. Her mouth hung open, the tongue resting against her chin like raw clam meat. Two plastic, gold coins were pressed against her eyes. The top of the bed post pushed against her cranium from the inside, giving her head a cone shape.

  “Holy fuck!” Simon pushed himself away from the bed, slipping in blood and knocking the wind out of himself on the ottoman.

  Gasping, he pushed himself off the floor, his left side covered in blood, splotches of it sticking to his chest hair. He was wearing boxer briefs and nothing else.

  Pieces of the annoying chorus girl were strewn across the bed—big sloppy chunks like she had been hacked up by a dull machete. Her severed breasts lay on the pillow, soaking it with blood and globs of fat. Below those was what Simon could only identify as what used to be her pussy, the lips sagging and glistening, the wiry pubic hair matted with blood and gore. The tattered vagina was pasted to the pillow sideways, under the breasts, like some ghastly smiley face. Above that, between the back two posts of the bed, her intestines had been nailed to the wall in the shape of a four-leaf clover. Flies were already zooming around the room, suckling at the juices, buzzing in Simon’s ears.

  Tears stung Simon’s eyes. Who had done this and why was he here? He tried to remember last night but couldn’t.

  On the couch his jeans and t-shirt lay folded. Simon never folded his clothes, especially while drunk, but he was too panicked to dwell on how strange this was. He picked up the jeans and started rifling through his pockets for his phone.

  He found it and began dialing the first two numbers of 9-1-1, having trouble seeing through the cracked screen. He shouldn’t have used his phone as a prop to threaten the cast.

  “Oh Jesus,” he screamed, watching as his fingers left red splotches on the glass of the knockoff iPhone, a Blackberry five generations out of date. He couldn’t call the police, they’d lock him up.