St. Patrick's Day
Mar. 17th, 2008 05:53 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
danalwynBecause I haven't insulted anybody recently, and there are Irish people on my FL.
I hate Saint Patrick's Day.
I hate what it's been turned into in the US. I hate the festivities, I hate the way the whole thing has been degraded into cheap commercial sensationalism, and I hate the fact that everyone tends to see it as a good reason to go get drunk, even if they aren't Catholic.
But most of all, I suppose I hate it for the implications.
I mean, in theory it has become a celebration of Irish culture and Irish contributions to America. And there have been many. Irish people have contributed to the cheap labor market, sewn shirts, built railroads, and helped the eastern political machines achieve dominance over the electorate. If it weren't for the Irish, the Transcontinental Railway would have gotten to Utah only from one direction. But we never talk about the bad parts of Irish immigration to America, namely what they brought with them.
And if you don't believe that they brought anything bad with them, I have two words for you:
Leprechaun. Mafia.
I have to admit that the first time I heard of the Leprechaun Mafia, I didn't believe in them. After all the absurdities that I've put up with in this job over the years, you would think that I would have learned, but I just never seem to. That was back in the panic after 9/11, when everyone was afraid that there were terrorists everywhere, especially the House Undead Un-American Activities Committee (HUUAAC). We had just gotten back from the protests ("Undead, but not Un-American", versus, "I died to defend free speech, I'm not giving it up now"), only to find the door open and three mafia enforcers inside.
Now look, it's just hard to take anyone seriously when they're wearing that stupid green coat and the top hat with the four-leaf clover. Every time you think you can approach the situation with even the slightest sliver of solemnity, you catch a glimpse of the pointed little shoes and have to spend the next few minutes fighting off an attack of the giggles. This is made even more absurd by the fact that they come up to your waist. There were three of us, Sam, me, and Charity, and Charity had to do all the talking because the other two of us were outside, suffering an acute case of hysterical laughter.
I suppose I was expecting some sort of Irish brogue, but the Leprechauns in question were clearly second or third generation immigrants.
"You see," they were saying, "We just moved into the area. We're businessmen of a particular type, and we just thought we would introduce ourselves and our wares. You see, we sell insurance, protection as it is, against the possibilities of any unexpected damages."
"Yeah," snorted one of them, "breakages."
I could tell from there that the three were occupying old, stereotypical roles. There was the brains, the one who was doing the talking, the brawn, the one who was doing the snorting, and the thin guy whose job it was to snap his fingers and open the door. The brawn is usually supposed to be a big hulking guy, and he was. He probably even came up to my belly button.
"You do realize that we could go to the Bureau with this," Charity pointed out.
"Why would you do that?" Brains asked. "We ain't said nothing wrong, just offered you a fine sample of our wares. You don't need to make a fuss out of it. Especially since someone might interpret that kind of fuss all wrong."
"You do realize," Charity continued, "that this is a Bureau office."
"Eh? What's that got to do with anything."
Charity glared at me because I was snickering at the way the glittery four-leaf clover on Brain's hat was bouncing up and down. "How about we call this a joke, and you get your green-painted ass out of here before something bad happens to you."
"Okay, okay, we can take a hint," Brains shrugged. "I just hope you don't regret this."
Of course, I thought that would be the end of them, but four days later they were back, just before the morning meeting. We opened the door, and there the three of them were.
"Now, it's come to my attention," Brains began, before Daren, who had managed to pry himself out of bed before noon in order to attend could rush off and check his Lucky Charms for LSD, "That you might not have taken our previous talk quite seriously."
"Weren't you just telling me about your wares?" Charity asked.
"Well, yes. But you don't understand how badly things could go if you don't have protection against unexpected damages. I mean, look at pretty boy here," he jerked his thumb in the direction of one of the guests.
"Pretty boy?" He is pretty, having crossed so far into Bishounen territory that he's been known to arouse perfectly straight men, and raise women from the dead. The way his long hair is tied back in a ponytail, the immaculate clothing, and the way he is always entirely clean-shaven adds to an image that, in its symmetry, is not merely pretty, but borders on beautiful. I would never dream of telling him that.
"Yeah, what if something happened to his face," Brains continued, "You wouldn't want something like that to happen, would you?"
"PRETTY BOY?"
"Now we all know that accidents can happen, especially to someone like pretty boy here-"
"PRETTY BOY?"
There was a loud roaring sound, like the sound of gasoline being dumped onto a lit fire, followed by the smell of brimstone, which apparently smells a great deal like Sulfur.
Charity sighed exasperatedly, "Lucifer, how many times have I asked you not to do that?"
He paused. "Counting this time, three."
She waved toward where the Leprechauns were now permanently etched into the floor. "Then have you ever considered not doing it?"
Pulling on his hair, as if checking that every strand was in exact place, he stared at the wall for a while before answering. "No. Why?"
"Never mind."
And that was the last of the Leprechauns, for a while. But then strange things started to happen. Someone would paste threatening green notes on the door. Beheaded four-leaf clovers would appear on windows and on people's cars. And, most ominously, a rainbow crashed into our building, dumping one and a half tons of gold onto our poor janitor, Mr. Hatfield, killing him instantly. That one we never really straightened out, mostly because we got distracted by the impromptu party we held for Mr. Hatfield, celebrating his one hundereth death since joining this job.
And then, one day, they were back. Sitting in the waiting room, three of them. Different from the first trio, whom we still could not scrub out of the floor of the upstairs lounge, but nearly the same, Brains, Brawn, and Snappy-Finger Guy.
"Okay," I said, shaking my head, "What is this? The Sopranos do Saint Patrick's Day?"
"Hey, this guy thinks he's funny," Brains said, pointing.
"Huh, funny," rumbled Brawn, who might have been almost four feet tall. Snappy-Finger Guy snapped his fingers at me.
"Look, you might as well come into my office and we can figure out what the hell you want," I said, knowing that Sam was out, and Charity had been out of sorts ever since last week when her right arm had been ripped off, and had to be reattached. At least with me they might stand a chance.
"It has come to our attention," Brains began before I could get seated, "That you guys think you're some kind of special, and that you don't have to pay up."
"Pay up for what?"
"To keep there from being any breakages."
"Heh. Breakages."
Snap, snap.
"Funny," I noted, "The only thing broken around here appears to be the holes in your head. What the hell do you think you're doing trying to act like you're Elder Gods?"
Which was not true. Elder Gods have been a lot more polite, ever since Sam stuck Cthulu in that box.
"Hey, this one thinks he's some kind of wise guy." Brains jerked his thumb in my direction.
"Heh, Wiseguy."
Snap, snap.
"Look," I tried to salvage something out of this, as the three Leprechauns began to circle my desk, visible only due to the tall, green top hats, "Why are you doing this? What do you get out of it? You can have as much money as you want, you can grant your own wishes. Why start a shakedown ring like this?"
"It's in the blood," Brains appeared around the corner of the desk, hands stuck in his pocket. I didn't even have to look to realize that Brawn was behind me. "We're Irish, you know, we love a good fight. We just can't help ourselves when it comes to pounding little twerps like you."
"Irish my ass!" I yelled, standing up to avoid being clubbed in the head from behind, "You've probably never been in Ireland in your entire life! Your accent is closer to Brooklyn than Dublin! I bet you don't know a damn thing about your homeland besides the fact that it's got four-leaf clovers. I'm more Irish than you, and I don't have a pint of your blood in me!"
"Hey, you insulting us!" Brains put up his fists, "Let's rumble."
"A bit of news for you," I told him grimly, "First, your Leprechaun magic isn't going to work on me."
"Oh yeah?" there was a rainbow flash, and a rush as a giant, invisible something rushed at me, intending to crush my mind. Then, like everything else, it petered out, draining around me in a shower of sparkles.
"Oh," Brains seemed momentarily discouraged, but quickly put a lie to the moniker I had assigned him by clenching his fists again, "Well, ain't you special. I suppose we'll have to do this the hard way."
"And second," I said, opening my desk drawer, "If you don't get the hell out of here right now, I'm going to take out my magic wand and show you some real magic."
Brains threw back his head and laughed. "Oh, listen to this boys. He's going to use human magic on us."
And that, I think, was what put me over the edge. So many races seem to think that humans are mundane, powerless toys, puppets to dance in a string, just because they have a little inborn help, that it really gets to me. I don't know why, but it's one of the prejudices that just sends me over the edge, and the way this guy was laughing at me, at all humans, at those people who labored every day in study and practice to gain something that this thing had from creation, was really getting under my skin.
"I warned you," I said, feeling my fingers close on metal.
"Hey," Brains pointed at me, "That ain't no magic wand. That's a crowba-"
"Of course it's a magic wand," I said, over the sound of a midget crashing into a wooden bookcase at full tilt, "Look, I touch you with it and you start bleeding. What else do you want?"
And that was pretty much the end of our Leprechaun problems, one of them leaving rather hastily by ricocheting off the banister, crashing into the wall, and bouncing out the door, the other two leaving at substantially higher altitude through my office window. Ever since then, we've been quiet, and at peace, and absolutely and positively Leprechaun free.
Until today, when a bouquet of four-leaf clovers, all of them with one leaf pulled out, arrived on our doorstep.
Fucking Leprechauns. I can see I'm going to have to get a bigger crowbar.
I hate Saint Patrick's Day.
I hate what it's been turned into in the US. I hate the festivities, I hate the way the whole thing has been degraded into cheap commercial sensationalism, and I hate the fact that everyone tends to see it as a good reason to go get drunk, even if they aren't Catholic.
But most of all, I suppose I hate it for the implications.
I mean, in theory it has become a celebration of Irish culture and Irish contributions to America. And there have been many. Irish people have contributed to the cheap labor market, sewn shirts, built railroads, and helped the eastern political machines achieve dominance over the electorate. If it weren't for the Irish, the Transcontinental Railway would have gotten to Utah only from one direction. But we never talk about the bad parts of Irish immigration to America, namely what they brought with them.
And if you don't believe that they brought anything bad with them, I have two words for you:
Leprechaun. Mafia.
I have to admit that the first time I heard of the Leprechaun Mafia, I didn't believe in them. After all the absurdities that I've put up with in this job over the years, you would think that I would have learned, but I just never seem to. That was back in the panic after 9/11, when everyone was afraid that there were terrorists everywhere, especially the House Undead Un-American Activities Committee (HUUAAC). We had just gotten back from the protests ("Undead, but not Un-American", versus, "I died to defend free speech, I'm not giving it up now"), only to find the door open and three mafia enforcers inside.
Now look, it's just hard to take anyone seriously when they're wearing that stupid green coat and the top hat with the four-leaf clover. Every time you think you can approach the situation with even the slightest sliver of solemnity, you catch a glimpse of the pointed little shoes and have to spend the next few minutes fighting off an attack of the giggles. This is made even more absurd by the fact that they come up to your waist. There were three of us, Sam, me, and Charity, and Charity had to do all the talking because the other two of us were outside, suffering an acute case of hysterical laughter.
I suppose I was expecting some sort of Irish brogue, but the Leprechauns in question were clearly second or third generation immigrants.
"You see," they were saying, "We just moved into the area. We're businessmen of a particular type, and we just thought we would introduce ourselves and our wares. You see, we sell insurance, protection as it is, against the possibilities of any unexpected damages."
"Yeah," snorted one of them, "breakages."
I could tell from there that the three were occupying old, stereotypical roles. There was the brains, the one who was doing the talking, the brawn, the one who was doing the snorting, and the thin guy whose job it was to snap his fingers and open the door. The brawn is usually supposed to be a big hulking guy, and he was. He probably even came up to my belly button.
"You do realize that we could go to the Bureau with this," Charity pointed out.
"Why would you do that?" Brains asked. "We ain't said nothing wrong, just offered you a fine sample of our wares. You don't need to make a fuss out of it. Especially since someone might interpret that kind of fuss all wrong."
"You do realize," Charity continued, "that this is a Bureau office."
"Eh? What's that got to do with anything."
Charity glared at me because I was snickering at the way the glittery four-leaf clover on Brain's hat was bouncing up and down. "How about we call this a joke, and you get your green-painted ass out of here before something bad happens to you."
"Okay, okay, we can take a hint," Brains shrugged. "I just hope you don't regret this."
Of course, I thought that would be the end of them, but four days later they were back, just before the morning meeting. We opened the door, and there the three of them were.
"Now, it's come to my attention," Brains began, before Daren, who had managed to pry himself out of bed before noon in order to attend could rush off and check his Lucky Charms for LSD, "That you might not have taken our previous talk quite seriously."
"Weren't you just telling me about your wares?" Charity asked.
"Well, yes. But you don't understand how badly things could go if you don't have protection against unexpected damages. I mean, look at pretty boy here," he jerked his thumb in the direction of one of the guests.
"Pretty boy?" He is pretty, having crossed so far into Bishounen territory that he's been known to arouse perfectly straight men, and raise women from the dead. The way his long hair is tied back in a ponytail, the immaculate clothing, and the way he is always entirely clean-shaven adds to an image that, in its symmetry, is not merely pretty, but borders on beautiful. I would never dream of telling him that.
"Yeah, what if something happened to his face," Brains continued, "You wouldn't want something like that to happen, would you?"
"PRETTY BOY?"
"Now we all know that accidents can happen, especially to someone like pretty boy here-"
"PRETTY BOY?"
There was a loud roaring sound, like the sound of gasoline being dumped onto a lit fire, followed by the smell of brimstone, which apparently smells a great deal like Sulfur.
Charity sighed exasperatedly, "Lucifer, how many times have I asked you not to do that?"
He paused. "Counting this time, three."
She waved toward where the Leprechauns were now permanently etched into the floor. "Then have you ever considered not doing it?"
Pulling on his hair, as if checking that every strand was in exact place, he stared at the wall for a while before answering. "No. Why?"
"Never mind."
And that was the last of the Leprechauns, for a while. But then strange things started to happen. Someone would paste threatening green notes on the door. Beheaded four-leaf clovers would appear on windows and on people's cars. And, most ominously, a rainbow crashed into our building, dumping one and a half tons of gold onto our poor janitor, Mr. Hatfield, killing him instantly. That one we never really straightened out, mostly because we got distracted by the impromptu party we held for Mr. Hatfield, celebrating his one hundereth death since joining this job.
And then, one day, they were back. Sitting in the waiting room, three of them. Different from the first trio, whom we still could not scrub out of the floor of the upstairs lounge, but nearly the same, Brains, Brawn, and Snappy-Finger Guy.
"Okay," I said, shaking my head, "What is this? The Sopranos do Saint Patrick's Day?"
"Hey, this guy thinks he's funny," Brains said, pointing.
"Huh, funny," rumbled Brawn, who might have been almost four feet tall. Snappy-Finger Guy snapped his fingers at me.
"Look, you might as well come into my office and we can figure out what the hell you want," I said, knowing that Sam was out, and Charity had been out of sorts ever since last week when her right arm had been ripped off, and had to be reattached. At least with me they might stand a chance.
"It has come to our attention," Brains began before I could get seated, "That you guys think you're some kind of special, and that you don't have to pay up."
"Pay up for what?"
"To keep there from being any breakages."
"Heh. Breakages."
Snap, snap.
"Funny," I noted, "The only thing broken around here appears to be the holes in your head. What the hell do you think you're doing trying to act like you're Elder Gods?"
Which was not true. Elder Gods have been a lot more polite, ever since Sam stuck Cthulu in that box.
"Hey, this one thinks he's some kind of wise guy." Brains jerked his thumb in my direction.
"Heh, Wiseguy."
Snap, snap.
"Look," I tried to salvage something out of this, as the three Leprechauns began to circle my desk, visible only due to the tall, green top hats, "Why are you doing this? What do you get out of it? You can have as much money as you want, you can grant your own wishes. Why start a shakedown ring like this?"
"It's in the blood," Brains appeared around the corner of the desk, hands stuck in his pocket. I didn't even have to look to realize that Brawn was behind me. "We're Irish, you know, we love a good fight. We just can't help ourselves when it comes to pounding little twerps like you."
"Irish my ass!" I yelled, standing up to avoid being clubbed in the head from behind, "You've probably never been in Ireland in your entire life! Your accent is closer to Brooklyn than Dublin! I bet you don't know a damn thing about your homeland besides the fact that it's got four-leaf clovers. I'm more Irish than you, and I don't have a pint of your blood in me!"
"Hey, you insulting us!" Brains put up his fists, "Let's rumble."
"A bit of news for you," I told him grimly, "First, your Leprechaun magic isn't going to work on me."
"Oh yeah?" there was a rainbow flash, and a rush as a giant, invisible something rushed at me, intending to crush my mind. Then, like everything else, it petered out, draining around me in a shower of sparkles.
"Oh," Brains seemed momentarily discouraged, but quickly put a lie to the moniker I had assigned him by clenching his fists again, "Well, ain't you special. I suppose we'll have to do this the hard way."
"And second," I said, opening my desk drawer, "If you don't get the hell out of here right now, I'm going to take out my magic wand and show you some real magic."
Brains threw back his head and laughed. "Oh, listen to this boys. He's going to use human magic on us."
And that, I think, was what put me over the edge. So many races seem to think that humans are mundane, powerless toys, puppets to dance in a string, just because they have a little inborn help, that it really gets to me. I don't know why, but it's one of the prejudices that just sends me over the edge, and the way this guy was laughing at me, at all humans, at those people who labored every day in study and practice to gain something that this thing had from creation, was really getting under my skin.
"I warned you," I said, feeling my fingers close on metal.
"Hey," Brains pointed at me, "That ain't no magic wand. That's a crowba-"
"Of course it's a magic wand," I said, over the sound of a midget crashing into a wooden bookcase at full tilt, "Look, I touch you with it and you start bleeding. What else do you want?"
And that was pretty much the end of our Leprechaun problems, one of them leaving rather hastily by ricocheting off the banister, crashing into the wall, and bouncing out the door, the other two leaving at substantially higher altitude through my office window. Ever since then, we've been quiet, and at peace, and absolutely and positively Leprechaun free.
Until today, when a bouquet of four-leaf clovers, all of them with one leaf pulled out, arrived on our doorstep.
Fucking Leprechauns. I can see I'm going to have to get a bigger crowbar.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2008-03-18 04:26 am (UTC)Your stories always brighten my day, and this one is no exception.
(no subject)
Date: 2008-03-18 05:03 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-03-18 04:26 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-03-18 05:03 am (UTC)And good to see you again. I don't see you around much.
(no subject)
Date: 2008-03-18 08:55 am (UTC)In the defense of my nation, St. Patrick's Day for us is something that's been imported into the country from ex-pats in America. The Irishness of St. Patrick's Day has next to nothing to do with the actual little wet rock in the Atlantic called Ireland.
I mean, we give the festivities a go, because it's what's expected of us. And we're good at the drinking part. But to be honest, there's a terrible sense of shuffling embarrassment surrounding the bit between going to mass in the morning, and the bit where you spend the evening in the pub in most places outside the big (tourist-filled) cities.
And Ireland doesn't have four-leaved clovers. That's a myth the tourist board tell visitors so we can leave them in a field counting leaves on shamrocks all day and charge them €250 for the authentic Celtic experience.
(no subject)
Date: 2008-03-18 02:08 pm (UTC)There are no four-leaf clovers in Ireland primarily because the Fir'Bolg took them all when they left, just to annoy the hell out of everyone else.
(no subject)
Date: 2008-03-18 04:23 pm (UTC)Eh, well, it's a bit more than that - it gets you a day off work, every town has a parade, the Dublin parade is televised. But we don't go dying rivers green and shit.
(no subject)
Date: 2008-03-18 02:38 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-03-18 04:22 pm (UTC)