FLiP

 
 I brushed off this spooky story from the 2008 e-zine version of FLiP.   Enjoy!   -Steve

Always after me. Always after me. Always. After me. Always after me, Lucky Charms. I am a leprechaun. A well famous leprechaun in the flake trade. On the run because, as I said, they’re after me. Always after me. After me.

They’re watching me. Always watching. Watching. Were they not watching, I’d surely vanish. Leprechauns can do that. We can vanish. But nae with a-body watching. Like a dog having a shite, nae with a-body watching. Once they fixed an eye on me, I was bloody well fooked.

So I run. I run. Always after me. I run. Always in the light. Always where they can’t make their move. Who are they? Who the fook are they?

I am the pitchman for a breakfast cereal that bears me name. For nigh sixty years, me job has been to entice children to eat rubbish that tastes like the box it came in. I’ve sold billions of boxes of this shite, making me richer than Bill Gates and the Pope sewn together and dipped in gold. I may be an animated blaggard, but I’ve nae reason to lie when I tell you that they’re after me. Always after me.

T’was nigh a week ago. Shooting commercial number two-thousand or so. Pointing to a gigantic bowl of cereal, saying me tag line, “Always after me Lucky Charms, they’re magically delicious!” as I had done two-thousand or so times before. But this young, wanker director wants get all method with it. Meisner shite. So I dick around with the line, twisting every read until me bloody head hurt.

“Always after me Lucky Charms, they’re magically delicious!”

“Always, after me Lucky Charms they’re; magically delicious.”

“Always after? Me: Lucky. Charms? They’re magically, delicious.”

I even gave the Shatner method a go. “Always! After! Me Lucky! Charms! They’re magicallydelicious.”

After two hours of this, I was losing me will to live. After five hours, I was losing me will for the director to live. Alas, I sais, “Always after ME - Lucky Charms! THEY’RE Magically Delicious.”

Mr. DeMille shouts, “PERFECT! CUT! PRINT! WRAP!”

“Well!” I thought to meself aloud, “What a fine piece of shite that’s going to be! Always after me, they are - like there’s a fookin’ price on me head! You turned it all arseways, you stupid git.”

I nae more than spit those words when a flood light crashed at me lucky feet. Massive beast of metal and glass, big as yours truly, lay in a steaming heap before me. Words “Magically Delicious” scrawled on its crinkled side. From the distant soundstage door, I hears the director chuckle, “Careful, little fella. Kelloggs would sue me if you got hurt.”

I chucked me shillelagh at the smug shite. “I dunna work for Kelloggs, ya stupid twat!”

I called me agent, Sue. Old pro in the flake trade. One time cereal star. Hawking Cheerios. Her partner Kid - killed on set. Freak accident, they said. As Kid said his line “Pow, pow, powerful good!”, cereal was to burst from the giant bowl before him. Pyrotechnics were set too strong. Kid never knew what hit him. Aired live. Ten million kiddos tuning in to their dear Howdy Doody saw Kid’s fookin’ head explode ’fore their wee eyes. Poor buggahs. Sue showered in Cheerios and Kid brains.

As ye might imagine, news of me present mishap had Kim righteously a-flipping out. “Don’t move!” She said, “I’m coming to get you. If this is a joke, Lucky, I’ll....just don’t move.”

Always after me. Always. There’s been a string of unlucky mates in the trade. Sugar Pops Pete - shot with his own sugar gun. Ruled a suicide. Quake, the mighty miner: sugar mine collapse. Ruled an accident. The Freakies - all of them - dead fooks. Cult-style mass suicide. Or was it?  

They’re after me! Always after me! Fook waiting for Sue! Me Irish feet commenced to running. Just beyond the studio gate, here’s Sue careening ‘round the corner in her mighty SUV. Swiping parked cars. Straight after me! I hit the deck. Her beast of a motor vehicle passes over. Smashes into the gate.

I ran to her car. I swear to baby Jesus on a pogo-stick - t’was chockablock with Cheerios and milk. I yanked the door. A tidal wave of Honey Nut Os and milk washed me into the gutter, quite undignified. Sue in the driver’s seat, marinated in whole milk. Poor lass. Drowned at the wheel of her own luxury sport utility vehicle.

Me cel rang. Caller ID “Sue”?  I pick up, “Look ye fooking shite-“ I sais.

A man’s voice interrupts, ”Von’s Market. Pass Ave. Aisle eight. Midnight.”

“Who the fook are you?” I demands.

“We’re magically delicious.” Click. The fook hangs up.

They’re after me. Always after me, Lucky Charms. They’re Magically Delicious. People crowd around the scene. They could all be the Magically Delicious. A woman screamed. Sirens grow louder. I had to get the fook out of there. I set me dear Sue beside the remains of the gate and crossed meself over her milky wet corpse. I hopped in her car. Tore off in reverse, arse over breakfast. No time to turn around.

They’re after me. They’re Magically Delicious. Psycho fooks getting cute with me tagline. Calling me out. Von’s market. High Noon at midnight. Waiting to get me, Lucky Charms. Aisle eight. Cereal killers. How will it go down? Force feed me cereal til me liver bursts? Patty de foie gras. Fooking hell! Poor Sue. Shouldna rang her. Now she’s pow-pow powerful dead. Me own fooking fault.

Hour forty-five to midnight. Time to kill. Time to get killed. Headed to Big Boy’s - not his diner, his flat up the Hollywood Hills. Lives there with Choo-Choo Charlie. Mr Good’n Plenty, don’tcha know. Stand up pooftahs. They’ll surely harbor a fugitive of injustice.

Still doing reverse. Up the Hills. Hitting every rubbish bin, it seems. A big fooking mess in me wake. Can’t see fer fook. Backed right into a red and white checked garage door. Big Boy’s flat. Loud noise. Hard stop. Out runs Big Boy and Chooch. Matching red and white checked robes.

I runs fer the door. Bob blocks the way. “Not a good time, Lucky. Really.”

“I need a shake!” I sais. Shoved the fat fook aside, and ducked in. Not a good time. No. Go in the living room. Cozy fire there. Stoked by the Burger King hisself. Naked, ‘cept a cape. Have it your way. Not a good time. Not now. Can’t stay here.

Big Boy saunters into the kitchen. “It’ll have to be a ‘to go’ shake, then.”

Chooch outside, throwing a wobbly. “You totally fucked up our garage door! Is this Sue’s car? Ew, Fuck! Stinks like spoiled milk!” He comes in, eyes me over. “You look like shit, Lucky. Are you fucked up on something?”

Bob hands me a shake. “Seriously hon’, you look like shit. What’s going on?”

I couldna hold steady. Shaking me shake. “Always after me, Lucky Charms.”

Chooch sais, “Who’s after you?”

I sais, “They’re Magically Delicious.”

“What!?” The Burger King sais, serious as a lad can git when he’s naked ‘cept a cape.

“Magically Delicious.” I sais, diverting me eyes from his whopper. I tells the whole tale. The flood light crashing. Sue’s drowning. The phone call. Vons. Aisle eight. Midnight.

The Burger King grabs his royal trousers. “We gotta go. Now.”

Chooch gets hysterical, “What? What’s going on? Lucky? Fuck! Why did you come here? Goddammit!” smacking me head wildly.

Big Boy comes from the bedroom pulling up his bib overalls. Tosses Chooch a .35.

“Wait!” Chooch sais, “We’ve got guns in the house? Since when? Bob! What’s going on?”

The lads refuse to get into Sue’s sour milk-sticky car. Move it aside. Garage door opens. Chooch’s mighty locomotive steams out. All aboard! Roars down the Hills. Bob and I shoveling Good ’n Plenty candy into the fiery furnace. Chooch a-tootin’ the horn. The Burger King doing royal fuckall. 101 freeway - northbound. Steaming full speed. Carpool lane.

“You’ve heard of these lads, the Magically Delicious?” I asks, stoking the fire with heaps of nasty licorice pills.

The Burger King sais, “Some similar shit went down with Marky Maypo, the oatmeal kid. Started getting notes and calls, anonymous calls, saying ‘I want my Maypo!’ Twisting his tagline around as a threat. They found him in his bathtub - scalded to death.”

Bob trembled at the thought. “Just add hot water.”

“Instant oatmeal death.” The King sais.

“But I canna figure as why they’re after me.” I sais.

“I don’t know, either. But we’re gonna find out.” The King sais, all action hero-like.

Chooch steers his locomotive into the lot of Big Boy’s in Toluca Lake. “Park around back.” Bob sais.
Down to the basement. Walk-in fridge. Bob rolls back a pallet of frozen patties. Opens a trunk of frosty arms. Tosses us each a buck knife, two shotguns (sawed off), and an arseload of shells. Behind a ten liter barrel of coleslaw, a box of grenades. Behind a vat of tapioca pudding, an uzi.

Up to our arse in arsenal, a young bloke walks in. “Hey! What the-?” He shouts. We turn guns on the lad, who about shites his employees’ uniform. Shields himself from our mighty weaponry with a menu, the eejit.

“M-M-Mr. Big Boy?”

“Easy kid.” Bob sais. “It’s okay.” Lowered our weapons. “These are friends of mine. I was just - We’re going on a hunting trip.”

“At 11:30 at night?” The kid ‘s nae bloody inbreed.

“We’re hunting nocturnal animals.” Chooch sais.

“Bats.” I sais. “We’re hunting fooking bats.”

“Oh.” The kid says. Just stands there nodding. “I never heard of bat hunting.”

The Big Boy sais, “Anything else, uh...”

“Kevin.” He sais, tugging his name tag. Turns his gaze to me. “Is that guy Lucky Charms?”

“No.” Big Boy sais. “Anything else?”

He points to His Highness. ”Is that the Burger King?”

“Yes.”

“Cool!” Kevin sais. He throws the King a curtsy. Back to the grind.

“Shoulda shot the stupid fook.” I sais.

”That’s my night manager you’re talking about.” Bob huffs.

“Alright ladies, let’s go.” The Burger King sais - the manly fook. Load the train with weaponry. King lays out a plan, making himself useful for once.

Bob’s your uncle, we steam to Von’s market. Chooch parks it. Handicapped spot. Fook it. Hop out. Load up with killing gear like the fooking Wild Bunch. The Burger King gives a wink and a nod - on with it.

I sais to the lads, “I’m so scared, I could shite yellow moons.”

Big Boy laughs. “Pink hearts, yellow moons, orange stars, green clovers.”

The Burger King repeats it. “Pink hearts, yellow moons, orange stars, green clovers.”

With each step we take, “Pink hearts, yellow moons, orange stars, green clovers.” Our fooking battle mantra now.

Automatic doors swing open. “Pink hearts, yellow moons, orange stars, green clovers.”

Under our breaths, to cover the sound of our pounding chests. “Pink hearts, yellow moons, orange stars, green clovers.”

Lights are on. No clerks. No shoppers. We fan out. “Pink hearts, yellow moons, orange stars, green clovers.”

Surround the store. “Pink hearts, yellow moons, orange stars, green clovers.”

Rendezvous at aisle eight - cereal aisle, of course. Midnight. Shotguns ready, if not steady. “Pink hearts, yellow moons, orange stars -” I round the corner like fooking Dirty Harry. “GREEN CLOVERS!” I shout. I couldna believe me eyes! There, end of the aisle, was -

“Can I just interrupt a second?”

“Huh?”

“Sorry to cut you off.” The pitch is upended by Jerry Wankler, Head of Production of Usher Studios. “It’s just that I have a screening I have to get to. I’m really sorry. Please, finish up with Barry and Debra. Great stuff, Steve. Nice accent.” He says, patting me on the shoulder.

“Uh, okay. Sorry. Thanks.” I stammer.

“See you, Jerry!” Barry and Debra say in unison.

As soon as Jerry’s out of sight, Barry says, “Actually, I’m gonna have to bail as well. I’m really sorry. I’ve just got this - “ he taps his wristwatch.

“Yeah, me too.” Debra says. “I’m really sorry. An off-the-lot meeting. Great stuff, though.”

Barry leans his head out the door. “Hey Jen, could you sit in on a pitch? Great!”  

“Steve, Jen. Jen, Steve.”

“Nice to meet you, Jen.” I say.

“It’s Jennipher, with a p-h.” She says.

“Oh. Hi.”

“Jen’s our new development intern.” Debra says, “Jen, Steve’s got this crazy idea, like Tarantino does a cereal commercial? Great stuff.”

“Oh, how fun!” Jennifer with a p-h says.

Barry and Debra leave. Jennifer with a p-h looks at her iPhone and skews her mouth. “Mn. Uh, hmm. You know, I uh, actually, I actually have a conference call I need to get on. Hang on a sec, okay?”

She leaves the room, returning with a goldfish bowl and a Swingline stapler. “This is my goldfish, Tati, and this is….my stapler.  If you could just go ahead and finish up with them, I.....your work is great, Stan.”

“Steve.”

“Okay. Uh, nice meeting you. We’ll be in touch.”

I finished my pitch to Tati and the Swingline stapler. They LOVED the ending, but had two notes: strengthen the relationship between Lucky and Sue, and add staples. Lots of staples. We’ve tentatively scheduled a lunch meeting after the holidays.