After taking a handful of soggy shrooms from a girl with sweaty hands, Marco transformed into a diabetic leprechaun. This was a problem. He began muttering to himself, clasping his hands in a panic. His Italian family was going to murder him for turning into a leprechaun. That’s what he gets for partying with the Irish in Georgia. What was he doing in the South? Could he identify as an Italian leprechaun? Diabetes isn’t bad, right? He never had diabetes before. It couldn’t be good, he thought.

Marco shook his head. He needed to calm down. To calm himself down, he sat in the girl’s coat closet and wrapped himself in a faux fur jacket.

Curled in the fetal position, he petted the fur while talking to himself in an Irish accent that sounded like a cross between an Australian beet farmer and a confused Harlem redneck. He pet the fur. The closet door opened. He bolted through the crowd yelling, “They’re always after me lucky charms.”

He ran pretty, pretty fast for a diabetic leprechaun, and after sprinting three Savannah blocks, he lost his pursuers in the St. Patrick’s Day crowd. Hiding behind an alley dumpster, he peaked out onto the street and muttered about his treasures when a mystical forest appeared over his shoulder. There in the distance was a shining pot of gold. He took off after it.

This second run was exhausting. The closer he got to the gold, the further it seemed to be. His diabetes kicked into overdrive and he clasped his kidneys in pain. Overwhelmed with exhaustion, he put his hands on his knees and breathed heavily when a beautifully round fairy appeared. She asked him what was wrong.

Marco explained in his horrible Irish accent that leprechauns were particularly sensitive to diabetes and that people were chasing him for his gold. He was so close to getting it, but it always appeared just out of reach. The fairy gently cupped his chin and fondled his balls, causing a warm bright light to fill his loins. She told him not to worry. Together they’d find the gold.

The shimmering fairy finished massaging his groin and slipped her lithe hand into his side pocket. She held up his wallet and yanked his hips close, grinding his knee and groaning seductively. She knew exactly how to get his gold, but he’d have to remember the code. “Oh, the code,” he said, hitting his head. “Of course we can’t get the gold without the code.”

He leaned close and whispered the code in her ear.

The atm machine poured ducats of bitcoin gold. They threw the gold into the air and it rained onto the technicolor floor. Now that they had the gold, the fairy told Marco she had a magic cure for his diabetes. He asked her what it was. First they needed to drink whiskey and beer, she said. It’s what her Godmother did to cure her own

All of this made complete sense to Marco the leprechaun.

They drank Guinness and Jameson’s, and then they drank more whiskey because leprechauns didn’t drink water and whiskey cured diabetes. When the rainbow walls gave Marco financial advice, the fairy told him it was time to go to her secret lair. Soon they arrived at her apartment. It smelled of mildew.

When he awoke the next afternoon, the overweight hooker was naked beside him. She had a face that could stop a clock and a tattoo that read—No Regerts. He jumped out of bed and grabbed his pants, rifling through his pockets as he hustled from the room. He found his wallet and all of last night’s receipts. He held the crumpled papers in his hands and fought back tears.

Halfway to the door, he stopped. After a long minute of silence, he shrugged and said in a perfect Irish accent, “There’s nothing so bad it couldn’t be worse.” He returned to the bedroom, smacked the hooker’s ass, waking her, and took her for another ride. Afterall, that poor leprechaun spent all of his gold and he’d be damned if he wasn’t going to get what he paid for.