I once met a leprechaun, who introduced me to his game. He wore a green hat, a green jacket, and had curly hair that looked aflame. We would walk around town while staring people down, in hopes of getting into a fight. And every time, when someone agreed, he giggled in sick delight. When a fight occurred I didn't attack, I'd retreat deep into the black. I couldn't bring myself to play his game, but beware, don't call me tame; his every punch seemed full of hate, like no one ever had a clean slate.
Each time a lad took a blow to the face, it would turn blue, green, and indigo. But when it also turned red and orange, I could vaguely see a rainbow. And thus I learned of the leprechaun's power: that with each forceful blow, your skin would flower.
Now tonight, for the leprechaun, was the same as other nights. From his patchy green hat to his torn green jacket, he was itching for some fights. But from my head you could tell I was ready to rumble, because all that remained was a bit of black stubble.
We spotted a single, towering, hulk of man, and after we set upon him, he ran. We chased him into an alley so dark, that I gained confidence, much like a bloodthirsty shark. But as soon as I entered that deep dark abyss, my blows, out of practice, all seemed to miss. And then, hitting my head, was a blow like freight train, a punch that was evil, cruel, inhumane. Out of consciousness and feeling, my mind was thrust, while two leprechaun hands eased me onto the dust. And there I lay, like a stack of chopped lumber, as my eyes closed reluctantly, into deep slumber.
I awoke, painfully aching, and while my hands were still shaking, I stumbled into a public bathroom. Grey walls and grey stalls inside of grey halls, all added to my existent gloom. But while I stood and glared at the cracked mirror, something behind me began to grow clearer. I whipped around quickly, though feeling quite sickly, and was appalled by my own squalor. But from the mirror anterior, I could see through the posterior, that the back of my shaved head was in color. Azure, magenta, and crimson red, dripped from my head like a black widow's thread. Gold, prune, and robin egg blue, dangled from the wound like laces on a shoe.
And at this moment, I then realized, the leprechaun was the one I always despised. This was an ultimate form of backstabbing, and I dread the moment when the wound will start scabbing. The colorful wound should have one sole aim: to remind me to never, ever, play the leprechaun's game.
Each time a lad took a blow to the face, it would turn blue, green, and indigo. But when it also turned red and orange, I could vaguely see a rainbow. And thus I learned of the leprechaun's power: that with each forceful blow, your skin would flower.
Now tonight, for the leprechaun, was the same as other nights. From his patchy green hat to his torn green jacket, he was itching for some fights. But from my head you could tell I was ready to rumble, because all that remained was a bit of black stubble.
We spotted a single, towering, hulk of man, and after we set upon him, he ran. We chased him into an alley so dark, that I gained confidence, much like a bloodthirsty shark. But as soon as I entered that deep dark abyss, my blows, out of practice, all seemed to miss. And then, hitting my head, was a blow like freight train, a punch that was evil, cruel, inhumane. Out of consciousness and feeling, my mind was thrust, while two leprechaun hands eased me onto the dust. And there I lay, like a stack of chopped lumber, as my eyes closed reluctantly, into deep slumber.
I awoke, painfully aching, and while my hands were still shaking, I stumbled into a public bathroom. Grey walls and grey stalls inside of grey halls, all added to my existent gloom. But while I stood and glared at the cracked mirror, something behind me began to grow clearer. I whipped around quickly, though feeling quite sickly, and was appalled by my own squalor. But from the mirror anterior, I could see through the posterior, that the back of my shaved head was in color. Azure, magenta, and crimson red, dripped from my head like a black widow's thread. Gold, prune, and robin egg blue, dangled from the wound like laces on a shoe.
And at this moment, I then realized, the leprechaun was the one I always despised. This was an ultimate form of backstabbing, and I dread the moment when the wound will start scabbing. The colorful wound should have one sole aim: to remind me to never, ever, play the leprechaun's game.
