Gary was right, and I motioned for him to lower his voice as I cautiously walked out to his perch at the edge of the roof of The House on the Hill.
“I’m hiding from Seamus,” I explained, referring to Maine’s only Leprechaun and devout fan of The Fighting Irish of Notre Dame. “He is so wound up about the game, and he’s swinging his shillelagh and singing the Notre Dame Fight Song repeatedly. I just needed to escape in order to maintain my sanity.”
Gary chuckled as I sat down next to his perch. “You’re a big Notre Dame, too.”
Guilty as charged. I was wearing my lucky Notre Dame hat, tee shirt, and sweatshirt after all, so the evidence was quite damning.
“Yes, I am, but I’m not pounding down the pints and wielding a curved stick like a weapon of mass destruction two hours before tip off,” I pointed out.
We both laughed hysterically at that one.
“He’s been talking nonstop about Kentucky ever since Notre Dame beat Wichita State the other night,” I brought Gary up to speed even though I knew Gargoyles had excellent hearing, and I was sure he had heard every word out of the Leprechaun’s mouth since Thursday night.
“The Wildcats are a formidable foe,” Gary stated as he stretched his wings. “They’re undefeated and destroying their opponents. Do you think Notre Dame is up to the task?”
I shrugged as I honestly had no idea. This was the furthest Notre Dame had advanced in the NCAA Tournament since 1979. I was just thrilled that they were still in the hunt and playing so damn well.
“I don’t think I could handle the consequences if they lost,” I whispered as if saying that too loudly would make it come true. “Do you remember what happened when Notre Dame lost to Alabama in the NCAA Football Championship?”
Gary nodded solemnly. The Irish had gotten crushed in a game that was over by the second quarter. Seamus kept drinking to ease the pain, and he blacked out at some point in the middle of the night. I found him the next morning passed out in my shower. He was out of it for days.
“We can’t have a repeat of that,” Gary declared.
“I could make sure that’s avoided,” a familiar voice volunteered from the attic window. “You just say the word, and I will guarantee Notre Dame wins tonight.”
The Devil climbed out of the window and strolled over to join us.
“Aren’t you a day early?” I asked in a nod to this blog’s usual Sundays With Satan Short Story Series.
Lucifer smiled. “I wouldn’t miss this party for all the souls in the world. I brought enough Hellfire Wings to ease the pain if Seamus insists on singing the entire evening.”
“Thank you for the wings and for the offer of using your Prince of Darkness mojo to fix the game, but let’s keep it fair,” I told Satan.
“Are we absolutely sure of that?” Gary questioned. “I don’t want to listen to Seamus crying all night if Notre Dame loses. It’s very pathetic and I have no way of blocking it out.
The Devil looked at me with a raised eyebrow. “I’ve got a lot of souls riding on my providing a perfect season and National Championship for Kentucky, but I’m willing to set them free for you, my friend.”
“Nah,” I replied without hesitation. “If they’re going to win, I want them to do it fair and square. And maybe with a little Luck of the Irish.”
Gary let out a slight groan, but even his heart of stone had to understand my thinking.
At that moment, Seamus poked his head out of the attic window. “What in the name of all that is holy is going on here? I’m working me fingers to the bone trying to make this party perfect for ya, and the three stooges are chatting up on the roof? Get yer arses down here and tend to ya guests. St. Paddy will strike ya down if he sees ya cavorting with Lucifer, and it could screw with the Luck of the Irish. How could ya?!?!”
The little Irish hurricane was gone as quickly as he had appeared.
“I could also just as easily make him vanish permanently,” Lucifer offered.
Gary looked over at me hopefully.
I did love the little guy even though he was a migraine headache bordering on a brain tumor. Plus, we both loved Notre Dame and us Fighting Irish fans have to stick together.