"There ain't no such thing," Rodger bellowed loudly enough for the whole pub to hear.
Michael said, "I'll wager that I could prove it to you."
"And when the sky falls, we'll all catch larks."
"Off to Ireland, be ye?" chimed in the salt of a sailor that sat near them. "You'll find nothing but misfortune leprechaun huntin'."
There was no time to heed superstitious sailors; a wager was at stake. The left Chicago on the next flight to Dublin. Counting the time change, they arrived an entire 12 hours after Rodger's shift was supposed to start. The four-leafed clover he found on their walk up the hill wouldn't save his rent check from being late on Monday. The cod fish filet Rodger had for lunch gave him dysentery.
The ruins were more ruinous than they both had expected; when Rodger called out to hear an echo, the ancient castle walls fell upon them, breaking Michael's legs in at least seven places.
As Rodger struggled to free Michael from the rubble, a wee little man stood atop the pile. Indeed, it was the spitting miniature of the sailor from the Windy City. “Aha! Ye, fools! Did I not tell you?”
“Ah, but we’ve caught you!”
“Father,” the leprechaun called to a preacher standing right behind them. “They’s faerie-hunting on the Sabbath!” And the preacher excommunicated them.
Rodger reached into his pocket and produced a five-spot. He put it into his damned friend’s hand.
“Told you,” Michael said.
Micro-Fiction Challenge
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