On POT OF GOLD

March 17th

On POT OF GOLD

The Publicist – Chapter 3

The publicist, lugging a surprisingly light pot of gold on his back, strode easily down the dusty road heading out of Rock Pile, WY. Accompanying him was a small black child.
“What do you got in that pot, Mr. Getz,” asked the black child.
“Gold, my son,” answered the publicist, “Lots of wonderful gold.”
“Did you find it at the end of a rainbow?” asked the black child, “Are you a leprechaun?”
“Nope,” answered the publicist, “I found it by investing in constuction and remodeling companies, and reaping the profits when a publicity boom hit this fair town. But I am a leprchaun.”
“You’re pretty tall for a leprechaun,” commented the black child.
“That’s true,” remarked the leprechan publicist, “I’m the tallest in my leprechaun family. But because everyone expects Leprechauns to be short and angry, I get away with it.” Then he said, with an Irish accent, “That and I don’t speak in an Irish accent anymore.”
“So you scammed our town pretty good, huh?” scowled the black child.
“Not really,” smiled the publicist, “I invested, and then I worked to make my investments improve.”
“Isn’t that, like, insider trading?” asked the black child.
“No,” replied the leprechaun, “It’s more like investing in your own company.”
“But everyone in the town is dead, or broke,” countered the black child.
“Well I can’t help that,” evaded the publicist.
“Little Bob shot himself with a shotgun when his bar went a million dollars in debt by installing fountains that sprayed liquid gold,” said the boy.
“Well, I don’t know who would have told him to do that,” said the publicis huffily.
“And Big Bob’s Haggis emporium literally collapsed in on Big Bob when he took out the walls because they weren’t upscale,” the black child reminded the man.
“That was fairly preposterous,” admitted the leprechaun, “Still, nothing that can be directly tied to me.”
“What about the fact that because those bars were so popular, everyone in town spent up all their money buying drink?” asked the black child, “all that money was invested in renovations, which you got as dividends on your stock, which you changed at the bank for gold, and now it’s in your pot!”
“Well, you seem to have a handle on it,” said the publicist, “now why don’t you run along.”
“One last question:” posed the child, “What are you gonna buy with all that gold?”
“Cigarettes, of course,” answered the leprechaun.
“You don’t smoke a pipe?” asked the child.
“Nope,” answered the leprechaun.
“You are the least leprechaun-like leprechaun I’ve ever seen,” said the child.
“What about these sideburns?” asked the leprechaun.
“They could be bushier,” evaluated the child.
Five minutes later, the black child killed that leprechaun. No one knows why – it wasn’t for the gold, that pot is still there, full of gold, beside that dusty trail. Maybe it was revenge for destroying the boy’s hometown, although everyone in the town was awfully racist towards that boy. Maybe it was because the boy was disillusioned when he finally met a leprechaun, his favourite of all the faeries, and the leprechaun turned out to be a nasty, tall, Amercian-accented crook. Or maybe his teachers had emphasized the evils of tobacco a little too much, and the boy took the lesson too much to heart. Maybe it was none of those things. After all, kids these days are sociopaths more often than not, killing people and things for kicks, just as they’re told to in their video games. I guess we’ll never know.

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.

On PUBLICIST

March 14th

On PUBLICIST

The Publicist, Chapter 1

It was a quiet day in Rock Pile, WY, when the publicist came to town. He wore a pinstiped three piece suit with violet suspenders, and a blue shirt with a white striped collar. He had a long face, an easy smile with long teeth and long sideburns. He wore on his head a bowler hat, which fitted his head perfectly.
He strolled into Little Bob’s Bar and Grill, pushing the glass and metal door clouded with fingermarks. It was 4pm and the atmosphere was dusty, cloudy and squinty. The man behind the bar, Little Bob, was six feet tall and five feet wide, with a walrus mustache that curled over his lower lip and a red, shiny face.
“You must be Little Bob,” the publicist said, putting his elbow on the counter and crossing his right leg behind his left.
“That I am,” said Bob, “Who are you?”
“My name is Tyrone Getz. I couldn’t help but notice that your bar,” he said, drawing out the ‘a’ in bar, “needs some publicity.”
“It’s not that good a bar,” admitted Bob, “are you some kind of publicist?”
“That I am!” exclaimed the publicist, “Now we’re all on the same page. I’ll tell you what, Little Bob, I am awful thirsty. Terrible thirsty. Why don’t you sling me one drink, just one drink, and I’ll work my magic.”
Little Bob moved his head backwards and squinted skeptically. “Magic? What kind of magic can you do?”
“Why publicity of course! And here I thought we were all on the same page,” said Getz, shaking his head mournfully.
“Well, I guess one drink won’t hurt,” said Bob, pouring the publicist a beer. “I’m not much of a businessman, but one beer seems pretty cheap for a publicity deal. Is this going to turn out to be a big scam, like in ‘The Music Man’?”
“Nope!” said Getz, smiling widely, “No scam! Just leave it to me,” he said, taking a drink. “Ahhhh! What a refreshing drink. Why I think all of Rock Pile, if they only knew about this fine ale, would flock to this location.”
“Ah, they’re all over at Big Bob’s Irish Pub,” lamented Little Bob.
“Well, what’s Big Bob got that you don’t?” asked Getz.
“Customers,” said Little Bob.
“Not for long – trust me, I’m from the big city, and I know how people think. Back where I come from, they got whole big buildings of people figuring out what people are thinking when they want to go out drinking. And I’ve got everything they know up here in my head,” he said, pointing to his hat. “Now you just recommend me a decent hotel with no bed bugs, and first thing tomorrow, I’ll come over here and start working.”
“All right. You don’t want to stay for another drink?” asked Little Bob.
“Early to bed, early to rise.” Getz dismissed, “I’m not a drinker, I’m a thinker, and I’ve got a lot of thinking to do to make this bar the number one bar in this here Rock Pile of a town.”
“Well, there’s the Dude Rancher. Never heard anyone complain about that place,” admitted Little Bob.
“Good enough for me,” announced the publicist, hopping up out of his lean and waltzing towards the door. “You won’t forget, or regret, giving me a drink today, my friend. I tip my cap to you,” and he did, “and bid you good day.”