Brian Trenchard-Smith—the cat—was Marvin Brink’s best friend.
Fed up with blood and gore, Marvin sat on the couch, Brian in his lap, and watched Willow. He studied Warwick Davis’s mannerisms and intonation, occasionally parroting back lines to see if he could get the actor’s lilt just right.
He reached toward the coffee table for his green bong. Since the musical had started, he had been smoking twice as much as usual. It was the last of his cash, but he badgered Byron to stop by his dealer’s house on the way home from Genevieve’s. He needed something, anything, to clear his mind of entrails and severed body parts. A new strain, his dealer had told him, called Four-Leaf Clover.
“It’s got real four-leaf clovers mixed in there, man,” his dealer said. “Like…fuckin’ magical shit. You’ll love it, I’m tellin’ you.”
Marvin knew it was bullshit, but he was curious enough to try it. Only ten bucks more for a quarter ounce. And with all this Leprechaun in the Hood: The Musical business, it just seemed too fitting for him to pass up the offer.
He took a big hit, held it in as long as he could, then coughed it all out. Brian shot him a dirty look, clearly unappreciative of Marvin’s jerking body as he coughed, but the fat cat didn’t budge, was dead weight in Marvin’s lap.
Weed was the only thing that helped Marvin with his aches and pain, and most importantly…his little problem. When he was high, for whatever reason, he didn’t get the hankering to stuff food down his toilet. He would much rather stuff it down his throat. And since money was tight, he couldn’t afford to just piss food away like that. He was still bitter about the doughnuts, which he clearly remembered paying for.
Something under the TV caught Brian’s attention and the cat slinked off the couch to investigate. Although Marvin loved the companionship, Brian was not a small cat and he was thankful to have the weight off his sore legs.
In his thirty-two years of life, Marvin had undergone three surgeries, two for his legs and one for his back. The number was lower than some little people he knew, but Marvin understood that he would probably have a few more in his later years, once his joints began to go. Being dropped on the ground by Simon may have added another procedure to his future. He would have to make an appointment with the doctor after the show had concluded its run.
“Whatcha got there, Brian?” he asked the cat. Marvin knew that it was probably a cockroach. He tried to keep the apartment as clean as possible, but it was an old building and rent was cheap. Roaches happened, so at least Marvin had Brian to stalk them, keeping the numbers mercifully low.
Brian slipped under the TV stand and Marvin turned his attention back to the movie.
How could such a versatile actor be considered a joke? Prejudice, that’s how. They were living in a fart and dick joke culture, and in a fart and dick joke culture a person like Marvin, even if they were as talented as Mr. Davis, would never be anything but a joke.
Even Peter Dinklage was at times treated like a punch-line. The cruelty of the world churned Marvin’s stomach, which is probably why he elected to spend as little time in it as possible.
All he needed were his movies, his weed, and his cat.
Brian Trenchard-Smith mewed from under the television set. He did this sometimes, became so caught up in the thrill of the hunt that he tangled himself up in the wires.
Marvin groaned, his spine burning as he straightened up and dropped off the end of the couch to go help the cat.
“Silly little bugger. You stuck again?”
Brian howled in response, the sound helpless and adorable.
“Did I catch a fat cat with my fat cat traps?” Marvin asked, going to his hands and knees to help Brian.
He put one hand on the cat’s rump and the touch must have frightened the animal, because he rolled the power cords wrapped around him taut and then the apartment, which lacked natural lighting, went dark.
“Shit, Brian.”
The cat was free now and zipped out past Marvin’s feet, while he fumbled to reconnect the television, DVD player, and lamp.
The knock on his apartment door was so loud it caused Marvin to bump his head on the TV stand.
“Just a minute,” Marvin yelled and the knock came again, loud and insistent.
Somewhere in the dark apartment, Brian hissed.
“Oh shush up,” Marvin said, pissed at his feline friend. He kept his hands in front of him, attempting to traverse the darkened room without injuring himself any worse than the day already had.
The knock had become a pounding.
“I said I’m coming, one minute,” Marvin said, the darkness and clatter scaring him now. What if it was the police? He hadn’t even thought about that, hadn’t had time to iron out his alibi with Byron and Simon. He could be going to prison for a crime he had nothing to do with. In his imagination, he saw the headlines. Pint-Sized Massacre. Dwarf Suspected in Violent Slaying. The New York Post would probably run leprechaun-based puns on its front page for a week. Pot O’ Gore! Leprecarnage!
Approaching the door, Marvin pressed his face to the specially-sized peephole he’d had the landlord install. He saw nothing. There was no hallway even, which meant that someone was blocking the other side of the lens.
“Marvin Brinks?”An authoritative voice asked. It was a voice he recognized, but he couldn’t put his finger on it.
“Yes?” Marvin said.
“You need to open for me, Marvin.”
Looking down, Marvin could see that Brian was rubbing himself against his leg, purring.
“It’ll be okay, buddy.” Marvin said as he unbolted the door, reassuring himself more than he was Brian. Brian Trenchard-Smith feared no man, only vacuum cleaners.
It was not the cops.
“We need to have a discussion about your involvement in Leprechaun in the Hood: The Musical.”
Marvin stumbled away from the man, tripping over Brian and landing hard on his ass. Brian yowled, darted across the dark apartment. Marvin ignored the thumping pain in his hips as he stared up at none other than his idol.
“W-Warwick…Warwick fucking Davis?”
The actor stepped in, wearing a crisp black suit and bowler hat. He smiled for a moment, but the friendly expression quickly melted away as he removed his hat and closed the door behind him. “You’re in a world of hurt, Marvin. You and all your friends.”
Marvin struggled to get back to his feet. He had so much he wanted to say to Warwick Davis, so many questions. All he could manage was, “You’re Warwick fucking Davis!”
“Yes, Marvin. I figured that out some time ago. Now if you’ll kindly unwrap yourself from my nutsack, we have some things to discuss.” Warwick shuffled across the apartment, having no issue finding his way in the dark. The second he took a seat on the sofa, the power came back on. He slapped his knee when he saw Willow playing on the television. “You know Ron Howard tried to get me to suck him off? He was obsessed with the idea. Guess he figured his tiny cock looked bigger in a dwarf’s mouth, you know what I mean?”
“Um…I guess,” Marvin said, taken aback by Warwick Davis’s vulgarity. Star struck, he couldn’t make himself walk across the apartment and sit beside the real Willow. He was sure this was some kind of strange dream, that he would wake up at any moment, his toilet stuffed with ramen noodles or something. “Mr. Davis…what’s this about? How did you…how did you find me?”
Warwick unbuttoned his jacket, folded it nicely, then set it on the arm of the couch. He patted the cushion beside him. “Please, friend. Have a seat.”
Marvin took a deep breath, then forced himself to walk across the room. The colors of the television splashed across Warwick’s face, deepening the creases and pock marks. His grin stretched wide and his eyes sparkled as he watched Marvin sit beside him. Warwick reached out, took hold of Marvin’s thigh, squeezed.
Even though Warwick’s tightening grip made Marvin want to scream, he could only smile. I’m sitting in my living room watching Willow with fucking Willow!
“Musical,” Marvin said, then, “Sorry.”
“Have you or your friends ever heard of copyright infringement?”
I knew it, Marvin thought. I fucking knew it. I tried to tell Simon, but noooo. Now we’re all going to get sued. Just like I said we would.
“I told them. I told them this would happen. Simon was saying something about parody laws and how if we changed this and that we could… Look, Mr. Davis. You have to believe me. This wasn’t my idea, okay? It was Simon. All of this was his idea.”
“Yes, yes. I’m sure it was. Quite sure.” His grip tightened even more, and Marvin could have sworn Warwick’s hand had changed somehow. Looked leathery, filthy, the nails long, bits of green flecking the cuticles like fungus.
Just a trick of the light. That’s all.
“Mr. Davis…you’re hurting me. Could you…please…?”
“Ah,” Warwick said, pointing at the television with his free hand. “My favorite part.”
The scene playing was when Willow was doing magic tricks in front of the dwarf village. Only instead of Willow standing before the congregation of little people, it was the leprechaun holding up the baby pig with his clawed hands. No…not the leprechaun—not the one from the films anyway. This one looked different somehow, slightly smaller, different facial features, larger and more menacing claws.
Onscreen, instead of making the pig disappear like in the movie, the leprechaun pressed his hands together, squashing the piglet from snout to corkscrew tail, squeezing it flat. Purple organs oozed out of the pig’s mouth and anus like jelly filling from a doughnut.
The little people of Willow’s village shrieked, scattered in all directions. The leprechaun cackled as he chased them down, one by one, and bit into them, tearing out mouthfuls of flesh. As each dwarf was bitten, they would fall, clutching at their wounds and grimacing, but within seconds they were on their feet again, now leprechauns themselves, their grimaces becoming verdant rictuses as they danced and guffawed.
“What the fuck…ahhhh!” Marvin gripped Warwick’s constricting hand, tried to rip it free from his leg but couldn’t budge it.
“The leprechaun character is mine, me lad. You and your friends have been awfully bad. I don’t usually hurt other folk who are wee. But you forced my hand when you fucked with me. Now you’ve gone and made this old leprechaun mad.”
Warwick’s claws dug into Marvin’s thigh, tearing past the fabric and into his flesh.
“Please! L-let me go!”
Warwick released him, snickering as Marvin fell over the couch to get away from him. Marvin yelped when his body hit the floor, Brian Trenchard-Smith immediately at his side, licking his fingers and purring.
Warwick stood on the couch, unbuttoning his white dress shirt, and then taking it off and folding it nicely beside his jacket. He did the same with his pants, his underwear. Besides his hideous hands, one now stained with Marvin’s blood, the creature still looked like Warwick Davis, only now completely nude.
The television filled with static, hissed and crackled. When more images filled the screen, it wasn’t Willow playing anymore, but a mash-up of the Leprechaun films—just the death scenes. But as the scenes played on, Marvin realized he didn’t recognize any of them. He had seen each film again and again, had the death scenes memorized. These were…new—different. The leprechaun on screen was the same from the Willow scene, not Warwick Davis in makeup. This leprechaun was real. Something about his leathery skin, his beady green eyes, even the way he cackled as he slaughtered his victims—a real-life fucking leprechaun. Which meant the men and women being torn apart on screen were real people, each of them ripped to shreds by the hands of an honest to god mythical creature. Blood and organs and tattered flesh splashed across the television, shrieks of torture and terror exploding from the speakers.
“Let me slip into something more comfortable,” Warwick said as he reached up, grabbed hold of his lips with both hands and stretched them in opposite directions. The flesh tore, splattering green blood over the couch and carpet. Warwick’s skin was peeled off like a wetsuit, tossed across the room. The leprechaun—the real leprechaun—clad in sparkling green suit and gold-buckled shoes, grinned at Marvin, took a bow and then did a small jig, cackling. He held out his hand, snapped his fingers. There was a shower of green sparks, and then his green top hat sat in his palm, the gold buckle glimmering in the television’s dancing light. He placed it on his head and his grin oozed into a snarl.
Marvin used the wall behind him to climb to his feet, searching the apartment for something he could use as a weapon.
“A musical, you say? Maybe that’s not such a bad idea, yes?” With another snap of his fingers, the leprechaun hopped off the couch.
Music began to play, though Marvin couldn’t tell from where. He wanted to run, get the fuck out of his apartment and away from the monster whose likeness he had been obsessing about since 1993. He needed to find Byron and Simon, everyone involved in the musical, warn them all. But he couldn’t run.
He felt like dancing.
The music played louder as Marvin pushed himself off the wall, and though the aches in his legs begged him not to, he began to dance. Tapping and shuffling his feet.
“Please don’t kill me. I didn’t steal your gold. I’ve loved your kind since Jennifer Aniston was twenty-four years old.” The words flowed from Marvin’s mouth in song-form, and he slapped his hands over his lips and widened his eyes, feet still dancing beneath him.
“Me copyright is as good as gold, and you took it just as well. And I won’t be a happy lep until your ass is raped in Hell. Dee diddle dee diddle diddle diddle dee.”
Marvin danced across the room, spinning and hopping. He tried to scream, but it came out in melody. The leprechaun clapped his hands once, and when he pulled them apart, he held a cane. He spun it, tapped it on the floor in rhythm with his feet as he danced sideways across the apartment toward Marvin.
“We’ll stop the musical, I swear. It will never be released. I’ll make sure the production is immediately ceased!”
“I wish it were so simple. I wish I wish, but still. It has been far too long since this leprechaun did kill.” The leprechaun flung the cane across the room, missing Marvin by a hair. It stabbed into the wall just beside Marvin’s head, wobbling as sheet rock dusted down. “I’ll pull your lungs out of your arse, blow them up until they float. Then tear your balls off one by one and stuff them down your throat.”
The leprechaun sprang forward, cackling all the while. The music picked up speed, grew louder in volume until the walls shook. Marvin tried to run, but tripped over his own dancing feet and smacked his chin on the floor.
Strong hands seized his ankles and yanked him backward. The leprechaun leapt onto Marvin’s chest, put his hands on his hips as he danced a rib-crushing jig.
Marvin grimaced, tried to breathe but couldn’t find any oxygen as the shiny, buckled shoes trampled him.
Something hissed, yowled from Marvin’s left. Brian Trenchard-Smith sat on top of the couch, ears pinned back, teeth bared as he hissed again, and then launched himself into the leprechaun’s face, scratching and spitting.
When the leprechaun lost his footing, crashed to the floor, Marvin kicked away from him, turned onto his stomach and tried to crawl. He could breathe now, but each breath was like inhaling razor blades.
From behind him, Brian screeched, yowled.
Just as Marvin had reached his coffee table, the leprechaun pounced on his back, bit into his neck. Its teeth were as hot as cigarette cherries, plunging into the soft flesh just below his ear. The music stopped and the scream that exploded from Marvin’s throat had no melody to it.
He threw an elbow and caught the leprechaun in the face, knocking the creature off his back. Marvin hauled himself back to his feet, knees shaking, a hand pressed to his neck wound. His eyes again darted around the apartment, desperate for something, anyth
ing to defend himself. With no other option, he grabbed his bong, held it with both hands like a bat.
The leprechaun stopped, sniffed the air. “Is that…is that what I think it is? Why didn’t you say so, laddie?” The leprechaun smiled and rubbed his palms together as he approached Marvin. The wee monster seemed almost friendly all of a sudden. “You’ll share with your friend the leprechaun, won’t you, Marvin? Been wanting to try the stuff myself since my character was in the hood.”
The weed, Marvin thought. Four-leaf clovers. It’s worth a shot.
“Oh…of course,” Marvin said, wincing as his neck pumped blood and pulsated with agony. He took a seat on the couch, packed a fresh, sticky bowl. “Be my guest. This is some good shit. The bomb.”
“The bomb,” the leprechaun said, taking the bong and nodding. “Yes, yes. The bomb.” He pressed his lips to the end of the glass cylinder.
Marvin lit the bowl, swirled the flame over the weed until every bit of green had burned black.
The leprechaun inhaled deep and giggled as he blew out smoke. Then his eyes widened and ignited into a bright, blinding shade of green. His hands went to his throat, clutched at his chest and stomach. He dropped the bong, spilling dirty water on the carpet.
“What…what is this? A tr-trick?” The leprechaun hit the floor, kicked his legs as he gagged and clawed at his throat.
“A new strain, asshole,” Marvin said, picking up the bong. “Four-Leaf Clover.” He swung the bong, smashed it against the back of the leprechaun’s head.
The leprechaun grunted, then was out cold, feet still kicking.
“F-fuck…” Marvin rushed to his kitchen, grabbed a towel and pressed it to his neck.
Brian limped his way toward Marvin, meowing. Marvin groaned as he bent down and scooped up his cat, then hurried out of the apartment.
He had to warn the others. Even though four-leaf clovers killed the leprechaun in the first film, the rules changed from movie to movie. Marvin wasn’t sure which of those rules applied in real life.
How the fuck do you kill a real leprechaun?
That was what they would have to figure out.
Leprechaun in the Hood: The Musical: A Novel Page 5