On LEPRECHAUN

March 16th

On LEPRECHAUN

The Publicist, Chapter 2

“Ye can go and fuck yerself!” said Big Bob. Big Bob was a tiny man with bushy red sideburns and a garish green suit and hat. He was thematically matched to his bar, Big Bob’s Irish Pub. It had taken a while, but the ironically named Big Bob had convinced most of the townspeople of Rock Pile, WY to do their drinking at his bar.
“You’re not really Irish are you?” asked the publicist, who was sitting on a green stool, cross legged, with a fruity green drink in his hand and a smirk on his face.
“Whu? Ah course Ah’m fuckin’ Irish!” Big Bob yelled from behind the bar. He hopped up on the stepladder he had behind the bar and thrust his index finger into the top of the bar. “Ah’m straight from the olde country!”
He wasn’t, but the publicist didn’t press the point. Big Bob’s Irish pub was completely empty, and it was all because of Tyrone Getz.
“Doesn’t seem like your establishment is very popular. Maybe you could use some marketing help?” asked Getz innocently.
“Ah donna need no help!” exclaimed Big Bob emphatically, “Ah got a great marketing scheme right here. Or it was bafore everyone got up and went to your Gangland Gas House.”
“An Irish theme?” remarked Getz, “In Wyoming? What are you thinking?”
“It’s exotic!” retorted Bob.
“Looks more like tacky,” said the publicist, gesturing towards the shamrock festooned jukebox and nuclear green carpeting.
“Not more tacky than the Little Bob’s Gangland Gas House Grill, with its Tommy Gun fries and its Al Capone Ale!” said Big Bob.
“True enough, true enough,” said the publicist, taking a sip from his drink, his pinky pointed towards the cracked ceiling, “Little Bob’s place is tacky. But that’s the thing with gimmicky marketing: people will come to whatever the next big new gewgaw is. What you need to do is go up to the next level: class.”
“I’ve got lots of class!” said Big Bob.
“I won’t respond to that,” said Getz, “But I will tell you this: don’t charge me for this delightful drink – what is it?”
“A Tom Collins,” said the tiny man.
“Don’t charge me for this delectable Tom Collins,” said the publicist, “and I’ll tell you how to get your customers back from that dastardly Little Bob.”
“Ach! I hate that Little Bob and his ironical nickname!”
“So, get even,” said Getz.
“Ah don’t want to give you nothing! You’re the cause of all my problems!” shouted Big Bob.
“Don’t be an idiot,” said Tyrone Getz dryly.
For a few moments, the large, black pupils of Big Bob quivered as he looked at the publicist. He had a tremendous amount of pride. Big Bob had travelled all the way across the Atlantic to find the most anonymous American town he could and make his fortune.
“All right, the drink is yours,” said Bob.
“Great. I’ll see you tomorrow,” said Getz, finishing his drink and hopping off the stool.
“What? Y’eraint gonn tell me now?” said Bob, outraged.
“You’re too emotional right now. You aura is too intense,” said Getz, “I’ll see you tomorrow, bright and early. And be ready to work.”
Big Bob scowled at the back of the publicist’s bowlered head. The publicist turned around.
“And your accent is Scottish,” he said, and left, the Western-style saloon doors swinging closed behind him.