Don't Tell A Soul

by Peter Ridley

"Hello, Mr. Willis," said the Leprechaun in his high scratchy voice. "I'm pleased to see you looking so ..... well, well."

"Paling," muttered the tall man. "Uh, um ....AH! Fencing. Er, oh! Barbed wires." The leprechaun considered this for a moment. Willis went on.

"Barbed wires, barbed wires ... Uh, ah. Mailed fist."

"Mr. Willis," shouted the elf. "I'm speaking to you."

"Stamp of guilt," declaimed Willis triumphantly.

The Leprechaun hacked him on the shin. "Now will you listen to me," he yelled.

"Eh? Oh! Hello." Walter was not particularly surprised to see the leprechaun because although a few gulps of medicinal poteen are a considerable aid in the composition of puns, there are other effects. "What can I do for you?"

"I'm the Satanically Accredited Agent for the Purchase and Sale of Souls in Northern Ireland."

"Are you now," said Willis. "The only one in Northern Ireland?"

"Yes," said the little person proudly.

"Then you must be the sole agent," cackled Willis. "The SOLE agent, see?" He bent over and poked the little elf in the ribs, knocking him down.

The little man picked himself up, muttering.

"Not much of a job for a leprechaun, is it?" enquired Willis.

"When you've been on the dole for 500 years you're glad of anything in the way of work," snarled the leprechaun. "And I'll thank you to keep your finger to yourself in the future."

"Digit hurt you," screeched Willis.

"I think," said the leprechaun viciously, "you'd look fine as a toad."

"Now, now," Walter wagged his finger at the sprite. "You wouldn't do that to a prospective customer, would you?"

"You mean you want to sell your soul?"

"Perhaps."

"I can assure you the very best terms," coaxed the elf. "Women, Wealth, Health?"

"Egoboo," said Willis decidedly.

"Eh?"

"Egoboo," repeated Willis petulantly. "Surely you know what that is?"

"No," said the leprechaun.

"Well, to understand it you got to ...it's .. well it's .. it's egoboo."

"Oh," said the little man. "I see." There was a long silence.

"Good evening," said Walter. "I must be going."

"No, Wait," shouted the leprechaun. "Will you sell your soul for this egoboo?"

"Of course," said Willis. "What fan wouldn't?"

"I'll get it for you then if you just tell me how. The boss has been a bit touchy about the lack of business lately."

"Done," said the elf some time later. "Just sign here on the contract."

"I won't shrink from it," muttered Willis with an attempt at normality, and signed.

 

And so now you know the REAL truth. Slant is written and printed by the combined efforts of two thousand four hundred and twenty-three leprechauns, who may be seen any night marching to Oblique House at 12 o'clock and leaving at 4. (Hours laid down by the Almalgamated Sprites and General Demons Union.)

THE ELVES' GNOMES' AND LITTLE MEN'S SCIENCE FICTION, CHOWDER AND MARCHING SOCIETY.

European Agent : Walt Willis, Belfast, N.Ireland

(data entered by Judy Bemis)

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