Is That A Shillelagh In Your Pocket, Or Are You Just Glad To See Me?

I have a very good working relationship with the local police departments, Modern Philosophers, because I often run into our brave men and women in blue while covering the stories I share on this blog.

Since I’d like to maintain that relationship, I immediately sped down to the Bangor Police Station when I received a call that a certain Leprechaun was behind bars.  The adjectives “belligerent”, “violent” and “shillelagh happy” jumped out at me during the very brief phone conversation, so I wasted no time in getting downtown.

The Luck of the Irish might have been smiling on my little friend today because Sgt. O’Malley was working the desk when I arrived.  I asked Sarge what Seamus had done this time, and then cringed as I awaiting the reply.

“He mistakenly believed a few demons to be pinatas,” O’Malley answered with a chuckle.  “For some reason, they chose not to press charges.  However, your boy was a bit tipsy and eager to further show off his sweet, Irish swing, so my officers thought it best to bring him here to cool off a little.”

The Sergeant reached behind his desk to grab Seamus’ shillelagh.  Maine’s lone Leprechaun was rarely seen without his trusty wooden sidekick.

“I’m going to give this to you along with a warning as stiff as this stick,” he said as he handed me the shillelagh.  “If I catch him using this again to dole out Shamrock Justice, it’s going into my fireplace for kindling.”

I assured Sgt. O’Malley that I would relay that message to Seamus once I was sure he was sober enough to remember it.

We drove home in silence.  Seamus, nursing a hangover, spent the drive with his head stuck out the window.  His face was almost as green as his suit, and was marred by a few long scratches.  “Damn Demons need to trim their claws like civilized folk!” was the only thing he said until we reached The House on the Hill.

I suggested we sit on the porch and discuss the events of the afternoon.  “Don’t see why I had me arse hauled off to jail, when it was the damn Demons who were startin’ the shenanigans.  St Paddy himself wouldn’t find fault in me defending me honor, and the honor of the Emerald Isle!”

It took some pestering and my refusal to turn over his shillelagh unless he talked, but Seamus finally divulged his tale.  “I was just mindin’ me business at the pub, when those Demons started hasslin’ me,” he growled angrily.  “I was savorin’ the end of me pint when they start up disrespectin’ Ireland.  One thing led to another, and me patience finally gave out when the loudest of the bunch said I was a typical Irishman, uglier than any redheaded stepchild who’d been beaten with the ugly stick.”

I raised an eyebrow because I knew Seamus well enough to understand that such a comment would really get his Irish up.

“So I finish me beer, set the mug down all gentle, and flash me most charmin’ smile.  Then I explained that in Ireland, we don’t have ugly sticks, but we do have shillelaghs.”  He paused to grin and hold out his hand.

I passed him his shillelagh.

“Then I went on to show me new pals how one might properly use a shillelagh.”

As you well know, Seamus is a huge Notre Dame fan.  From his story, it sounds like he made sure those Demons knew why his favorite team was called The Fighting Irish.

Life is never dull, Modern Philosophers, when you’re a Leprechaun’s emergency contact…