Leprechaun in the Hood: The Musical: A Novel

by Cameron Pierce

  But first…he had to make a stop. Get something to eat. The hunger hit him out of nowhere, and he only craved one thing: potatoes.

  By the time they’d buried Genevieve, the sun was going down. Autumn days in the Pacific Northwest were short. Too short for Simon’s taste. He liked dark bars and dark movies, but those were things you could walk away from, into the light. Now the dark was here and all around him.

  He opened Byron’s trunk and tossed the shovels in. He was just about to complain about the pain in his lower back when he noticed the gold shimmering in the diminished light.

  “Hey, Byron,” Simon called out. “This the gold from the set? Why’s it in your trunk?”

  Byron wiped the sweat from his face with the bottom of his shirt. “I went back and grabbed that shit. Couldn’t just leave it on set. You remember what happened to the last pot of gold…and that was just plastic crap.”

  “This is no better than plastic,” Simon said as he reached in and grabbed a handful of the heavy metal. “Probably scrap iron someone painted gold just to fuck with us.”

  Byron shrugged. “Oh well. Whoever it was did us a favor. That plastic gold looked like shit, Simon. At least this looks real. And who the fuck would take the time to paint all that up and make the swap? Doesn’t really make any sense.” Byron shook his head. “Those plastic coins in Genevieve’s eyes…whoever swapped the gold has got to be our killer. Right? Maybe we can get fingerprints off them or something.”

  Simon tossed the gold coins from hand to hand. “I wasn’t touching those fucking coins, man. They were in her eye sockets. That shit got bagged up with the rest of her head.”

  “Fucking great,” Byron said.

  Simon was about to slam the trunk closed when something caught his eye.

  “Damn,” he said as he plucked the flute from the pile of gold. The instrument was gold-colored too. “Whoever our killer is, he had an eye for detail. This is just like the flute from Leprechaun in the Hood. Check it out.” Simon studied Byron’s response, but his friend barely responded, just sort of shrugged.

  “Can we get the fuck out of here already? I don’t know if you remember but we just buried a dead body. We should have been gone by now.”

  Simon pulled the flute out, slammed the trunk. “Yeah, you’re right. Um…Byron.” Simon paused. “I’m sorry, man. I swear I didn’t mean to get you involved in this shit. But I didn’t know what else to do. I was scared…still am. I know it’s fucked up, but you’re all I’ve got.”

  Byron shook his head, massaging his temples. “Just get it in the car and let’s go.”

  “Yeah, all right.” Simon slid into the passenger seat, turning the flute over in his hands. The car’s headlights burst on as Byron turned the ignition, illuminating the loose dirt where they had just buried Genevieve’s remains.

  I’m sorry, Genevieve. I didn’t really know you, and you were annoying as shit, but I won’t forget you.

  He didn’t know why—he was overcome by a strange, uncontrollable urge—but he pressed the flute to his lips, placed his fingers over the holes, and blew. The sound was faint, hardly audible at all. Simon pulled it away from his mouth, then started spitting and wiping his lips as the flavor of death painted his tongue.

  “Ah, fuck! What the hell is—”

  Byron had turned in his seat so he could stare at Simon. His eyes were wide and unblinking, his jaw hanging loose. Just like from the film. Simon thought Byron was fucking with him, and he was actually relieved to see his friend display some shred of humor again.

  “All right, asshole. Let’s get going,” Simon said with a smile, then swirled his tongue around his mouth and spat the pungent taste out the window. When he turned back toward Byron, the guy still hadn’t budged. He stared at Simon as if hypnotized. A string of drool hung from his bottom lip.

  “Byron, quit fucking around. Drive, man. Let’s move.”

  Nothing. No response. Then Simon noticed the slight, dim green glow in Byron’s eyes.

  Simon turned the flute over in his hands, not sure what to think, what to do. This can’t be happening. This isn’t…

  Something moved in the dirt just in front of the car. At first, Simon thought it was a trick of the headlights, but as he stared at the loose soil where they had just buried Genevieve, it moved again, bulging up as if something were digging its way out.

  “Byron.” Simon nudged his friend in the shoulder. “Byron, man…”

  Byron didn’t respond, didn’t even blink.

  The dirt parted and something long and pale wiggled its way out of the ground. It wasn’t until Simon saw the toes—the nails painted black and wiggling—that he realized it was Genevieve’s leg. It moved like a giant inchworm, bending at the knee as it scooted across the earth. Coagulated blood oozed out of the ragged stump, but it was a dark green color, leaving a trail of gory mud behind as it moved.

  “Fuck my life.” Simon grabbed Byron by the shoulders, shook him. “Snap out of it, man. Wake up!”

  Byron’s head rocked back and forth as if his neck was a spring, and he still had that dumb look on his face, his eyes like glow-in-the-dark orbs.

  More forms worked their way out of the dirt, bits of shredded trash bag clinging to the moist flesh. Genevieve’s limbless, headless, titless torso wiggled its way out, fell over onto its back and flopped around like a halibut. Right behind that came two pale breasts, rolling through the dirt like spilled grapefruits. They crept up the torso’s belly toward the chest, two green, tattered circles indicating where they had been torn from. Once the breasts were in place, they spun as if screwing themselves back in, splattering the grass with more green, swampy blood.

  Chunks of unidentifiable flesh poked out of the dirt like gophers, scurried toward the torso and pressed themselves into the bloody, ragged spots they used to inhabit.

  The leg inched its way over and began to screw itself back onto the torso.

  Simon needed someone else to witness this, to prove he wasn’t crazy. He cocked his fist back and punched Byron in the face, nailing him square in the chin.

  Byron’s head rocked back, smacked the driver’s side window. His eyes focused and he blinked rapidly, extinguishing the glow, finally snapping out of his trance. He wiped the drool from his lip, cupped his chin and moaned.

  “Oh you’re so fucking dead.” Byron lunged at Simon, teeth bared, but Simon caught him by the wrists, jerked his head toward the living body parts.

  “Just fucking look!”

  Byron ripped his hands free, landed a punch before turning in his seat. Simon grunted, cupped his bleeding nose.

  “Fuck, Byron!”

  “What…what the hell is… What the fuck is that?”

  The body stood on both legs now, its left arm spinning in place at the shoulder as it screwed itself in. Simon was positive they had buried the corpse nude, didn’t remember any clothing at all. Yet the body was clad in a gold leotard, hugging it tight, shoving the newly-attached breasts together to form deep, green-tinted cleavage.

  “Byron, just drive. Run that motherfucker over and get us out of here.”

  “Is that Genevieve?”

  “Just go! Hurry!” Blood ran from Simon’s nostrils, staining his teeth and coating his tongue as he spoke. “Drive! Fucking drive!”

  Genevieve’s other arm unearthed itself next, dragging her head by the hair. The face was smiling, black sunglasses covering her eyes. She reached down with her attached arm, pressed the second arm to her shoulder where it spun and fused itself to the whole. Then with both hands, she placed her head atop her neck stump, twisted it.

  Byron still just stared, shaking his head and mumbling as he watched Genevieve’s resurrected body start to sway its hips, hands running up and down its sides seductively.

  Simon leapt across the middle console, threw the car into drive, then pressed down on Byron’s knee. The car lurched forward, throwing dirt and gravel behind them. Just before they reached Genevieve, she tilted her head down to reveal her eyes be
hind the glasses. They glowed bright green, shimmering like jade.

  Then the front bumper slammed into her, threw her under the car. The car bounced as they ran her over, Simon’s head rocking forward, crushing his nose on the dashboard. He grunted and cupped his face again, fresh blood running through his fingers.

  Byron slammed on the brakes, still mumbling, Simon unable to decipher a word of it. They turned and looked out the back window together.

  Genevieve stood unharmed in the same spot. Her golden leotard sparkled, eyes grew brighter. Her grin stretched across her face, and she wiggled her fingers at them. “Ooohhh, y’all are in trouble. It’s not nice to steal gold from a leprechaun.”

  Byron didn’t have to be told this time. He mashed his foot against the gas pedal under his own power and peeled out, rocketing through the woods.

  Genevieve cackled from behind them, pointing in their direction as they sped off, her eyes flooding the woods with lime-colored light.

  “Simon, what the fuck was that? What did we just see back there?”

  Simon held up the flute, hands shaking. “I…I played this. I don’t know why, but I just did. You were in some kind of trance or something. You just stared at me like you were brain dead...your fucking eyes were green too.”

  “My…my eyes…?” Byron’s brow furrowed as he stared into the rearview. “Just like in the movie. Just like in the fucking movie,” he said, and then slammed his palms against the steering wheel.

  “Holy fuck.” Simon wiped another handful of blood away from his nose, rolled the flute in his hands. “Genevieve…she was…she was a—”

  “A zombie fly girl,” Byron said. “She was a fucking zombie fly girl, wasn’t she?”

  Even though it sounded insane, Simon nodded. He reached into his pocket, pulled out the green note that had been left behind at Genevieve’s apartment. “Ye fuckers ripped off my intellectual property. That was not a great move for your physical longevity. So consider this my cease and desist letter. To fuck with me you should have known better. Prepare to now pay for your larceny.”

  They burst out of the woods and onto the road, Byron swinging the car into a sharp left turn, nearly slamming into a white van going the opposite direction.

  “What’s going on, Simon?”

  “The leprechaun.”

  “What?”

  “The fucking leprechaun. It’s real and it’s pissed that we’re using its character in our musical. He killed Genevieve and brought her back as a zombie fly girl…which was the stupidest fucking part about that movie—”

  “Fuck the movie! What the hell are we gonna do now?”

  Simon ran his fingers across the golden flute’s surface. “We need to get the cast and crew together.”

  And we’re going to put on the best fucking show ever, he thought. Just like in the movie…they’ll love me. They’ll worship me.

  “So what do you think happened?” Trinie said, walking hand in hand with Mark down the street.

  They had been trying to decide on a place to go for dinner, but hadn’t found anything yet. Mark was thinking about suggesting pizza again so they could hurry up and eat, get back to her place where they could jump back into bed.

  “Happened with what?”

  “The show. Why do you think they canceled practice?”

  “Who knows? Maybe Byron and Marvin came to their senses, kicked Simon out. With him gone, things would go a lot smoother at the very least. Maybe we can get this thing on track, put on a decent show.”

  “God, I hope so. I don’t know how much more of that dickwad I can take.”

  Mark stopped, grabbed her other hand, looked into her eyes. “How about we don’t talk about the musical tonight, huh? I’m kind of sick of it, to be honest. I want to concentrate on you.” He started to lean in, started to kiss her. But she moved her face to the left at the last second. Mark’s puckered lips landed on her ear.

  “Is that…is that Marvin?” Trinie pointed over Mark’s shoulder.

  Mark rolled his eyes, spun to face the direction Trinie was pointing. The restaurant had a glass front, and sitting right by the window was Marvin, stuffing his face.

  “What’s wrong with him?” Mark said. “He looks sick. Doesn’t he?”

  Trinie clapped once, chuckled. “It’s a publicity stunt. Look at him…he’s dressed as the leprechaun.”

  Mark squinted, took a few steps toward the restaurant. “Maybe after the leprechaun was hit by a fucking semi-truck.”

  “I think it looks great. All that green blood. At least they stepped it up in the special effects department, right?”

  “I guess.”

  Marvin definitely looked like a leprechaun, just not the leprechaun. He didn’t have the right clothes, didn’t have the right features. He basically looked like a Marvin version of the leprechaun. But Trinie was right. It looked a hell of a lot better than before.

  And it was working. Every pair of eyes in the restaurant was aimed at Marvin. A cat leapt onto the table, started eating the food there, but Marvin shooed it away, pulled the plate closer to him and covered it with his arm as he continued to gorge himself. The cat hissed, and when a man who looked like the restaurant’s manager came by, pointed at the cat and then pointed outside, Marvin slammed his hands on the table, bared his teeth at the manager, and the man backed off.

  Looks like Marvin is stepping up his acting game too.

  “Let’s go say hi,” Trinie said, then grabbed Mark’s hand and dragged him toward the diner.

  “Trinie, hold on. We’re gonna ruin his whole act. Let’s just—”

  “Look, the musical might be stupid to you, but I’ve really been excited about it, okay? I’m into it. I know it’s no Troma movie, but it’s something.”

  “I didn’t mean—”

  “Just come on.”

  A bell jingled as they entered the diner, but nobody looked up at them. Every customer, every employee, every person walking by the windows outside had their attention on Marvin.

  The green-clad dwarf had about six plates of food in front of him: French fries, a baked potato, hash browns, mashed potatoes, potato wedges, and a stack of what looked like potato pancakes.

  “He’s laying it on kind of thick, don’t you think?” Mark whispered to Trinie.

  “No, it’s genius. Just like from the third movie.” Trinie left Mark at the door and approached the table.

  “You’ve seen the third movie?” Mark asked as he followed her.

  Marvin didn’t even acknowledge them, just kept stuffing potatoes into his mouth, his lips and chin shining with grease. His neck was covered in some kind of green liquid that oozed out of one hell of a convincing wound. The exposed meat even pulsated.

  Trinie knocked her knuckles against the table. “Those potatoes look magically delicious,” she said in an awful attempt at an Irish accent. Marvin’s cat padded over, limping, licked Trinie’s hand.

  “Ma’am,” the manager said, placing a gentle hand on Trinie’s shoulder. “I think it’s best you don’t mess with him. I don’t need things to escalate any. Police are on their way.”

  “Police?” Mark said, shaking his head and smiling. “That won’t be necessary. This is a friend of ours. Right, Marvin?”

  Marvin licked his lips, slowly turned to face them. “There once were two cats of Kilkenny, each thought there was one cat too many. So they fought and they fit, and they scratched and they bit, till excepting their nails, and the tips of their tails, instead of two cats there weren’t any.”

  “What?” Mark said, then flinched and pulled Trinie away from the table as Marvin lunged forward, grabbed his cat by the tail and pulled it toward him.

  The cat spat, clawed at Marvin, raking fresh green wounds across his skin. But Marvin didn’t seem to care or notice. He stuffed the cat’s head into his mouth, his jaw seeming to unhinge to make it fit, and before Mark or anyone could stop him, he bit down.

  The cat’s body went into convulsions for a moment before going limp and
hanging from between Marvin’s teeth. Marvin ground his jaw back and forth, pulling the carcass with both hands away from his face. Tissue stretched like taffy from the cat’s neck, spurting blood across Marvin’s face and chest. When he chewed, the crunching sound was so loud, everyone in the restaurant cringed, flinched. Some ran out, leaving their plates behind.

  “What the fuck, man?” Trinie said.

  “Something’s wrong,” Mark said, holding Trinie back. She tried to push away from him as if she wanted to attack Marvin. “We need to call someone…like right now.”

  “If he’s your friend,” the manager said, covering his mouth, cheeks bulging as if ready to puke. “Get him the hell out of here, would you?”

  “Marvin, what’s the matter with you?” Mark said, tentatively approaching the table. “Are you sick? What happened to your neck?”

  Why the fuck is his blood green like that?

  Marvin pushed his finger into the cat’s neck stump as he continued to chew the head. Fur was pasted to his lips and chin. He moved his finger in and out, giggling.

  Then suddenly his expression changed. His eyes darted toward Mark, then Trinie, then the dead cat in his hands.

  “B-Brian? Brian!” Marvin stood, hyperventilating. He studied the cat, ran his hands over the fur and shook his head. Meat and fur fell out of his mouth in clumps, and he wiped at his face, staring at the mess in his hand, then leaned over and puked onto the floor, the hot vomit splashing onto the manager’s shoes, a mixture of masticated potatoes, cat flesh, fur, and skull fragments.

  “Marvin, we need to get the hell out of here.” Mark grabbed Marvin by his arms, lifted the weeping dwarf out of the booth.

  “The leprechaun,” Marvin muttered. “The fucking leprechaun, the real fucking leprechaun, did this to me. He…he came to my house. He was Warwick Davis at first. He made me dance, but then we smoked Four-Leaf Clover and…and I think maybe I killed him. But now…now… Oh God, Brian!”

  Mark and Trinie shared a look, and they moved toward the front door, Marvin between them, as quickly as possible, leaving the dead cat and the feast of potatoes behind.