CONTINUED: Hillary Clinton’s Perfect Man, by Kevin Schmitt

 The aide didn’t need to identify herself since the only people who ever called her were party functionaries who needed to work through Hillary’s staff.

 “Oh certainly,” the young woman responded after a moment. “I’ll mention that to Mrs. Clinton, but you really needn’t have bothered asking.”

 Another pause and then, “Very good----yes, have a nice day.”

 The aide then ended the transmission and said, “Senator Cullerton will be bringing his wife.”

 “Nuts,” Clinton muttered half to herself.

 “Is there a problem with that Ma’am?” the aide inquired with genuine concern.

 “It’s no big deal but she is collecting material for a future book. At least that’s what I have been lead to believe. She could drag this meeting out longer than I’d like.”
With a mental shrug the former First Lady left her entourage in the living room and went to inspect the bathroom. Then she stepped into the bedroom and went to a plaid travel case that caused her to frown. What she had in mind was her favorite hand lotion, but as she drew closer to the case it seemed to her that the handle looked wrong. Unzipping the case with misgivings, her suspicions were immediately confirmed. Inside the case she found a twelve foot long doll that had been fashioned to resemble a Irish leprechaun.

“Oh crap. We were given the wrong travel case,” she thought to herself.

 She grinned as she picked up the doll and inspected if further. It was a gaily dressed plaything, but the face was somewhat foreboding. The eyes were unmistakably predatory, and as Clinton’s thumb pressed against the doll’s chest, she actually thought she could detect a heartbeat. Suddenly the eyes shifted towards her and the woman almost dropped the doll while taking in a sharp breath.

 “Oh for crying out loud,” she chuckled to herself, “that’ll teach me not to go playing with other people’s dolls.”

 “Mrs. Clinton, we didn’t catch that,” said an aide from outside the room.

 “Someone at O’Hare gave us the wrong travel case,” said Clinton. “Somebody must have been on a trip to Ireland because I’m looking at the weirdest leprechaun doll you’ve ever seen.”

 Suddenly the doll blinked into full animation and said, “Would ye be so kind as to put me down my good woman.”

 The international celebrity happily complied with a light chuckle.

 “You know, I really envy kids these days. The toys they get to play with….”

 “I am not a toy Madam, and I’d very much like to know what the blazes I am doing in this noisean domicile.”

 “Damnedest thing,” the woman muttered. “Maybe it works by voice command. Um---what is your name?”

 “Patrick Deeneen, but I wouldn’t be having ye get that familiar jest yet. Ye may call me Snake Slayer.”

 “I thought St. Patrick destroyed all the snakes in Ireland.”

 “And if eggs came out of a goose fully cooked he’d be gettin credit fer that as well,” growled the little man.

 Hillary shook her head in dismay.

 “Enough already. Would someone come in here and show me how this super toy can be turned off. I wouldn’t want the batteries to wear down because then the little fellow would feel just like me.”

  The woman paused for a bit, while staring at the remarkable little gizmo. It was perhaps twenty-one inches tall and wearing a green suit that looked like something out of a Charles Dickens classic. The doll sported a great deal of body hair and a weathered complexion. But it was the eyes that threatened to unnerve the woman. They weren’t just life like, they seemed mocking in a way.

 “Ladies, I realize that none of us have played with dolls in a while but—“

 Clinton entered the living room and scowled at the scene before her. All five women in her entourage appeared to be frozen in time; like window mannequins except for the absolute lifelikeness that suggested only one thing.

 “People---lifelike dolls and frozen employees I do not need this afternoon. I love a joke as much as the next person but this is stupid and I’m just too tired for it.”

 The five women refused to so much as flick an eyelash and that caused Hillary’s temper to flair. Removing a broach from her blouse she then brandished the tiny stick pin as if it were fencing foil.

 “I wonder if I can get anyone to move by poking a few tushs.”

  When the bluff failed to provide her with a desired result she angrily marched up to the nearest woman and tried to execute a good shove. To her horror, her hand and arm went clear through the woman’s body.

 “Jesus,” she muttered while pulling back.

 Clinton shook off an urge to panic and willed herself to think logically.

 “Holograms. I’m being gas lighted with laser projections. Only question is why.”

 “Yer in the wrong room fer the answers me darlin,” announced the creature with an Irish brogue.  

 Activating the locket transmitter she wore around her neck, the woman re-entered the bedroom with a look of grim resolve.

 “Don’t think I’m going to spend all day talking to you creeps through a stupid doll,” declared Clinton.  “I know full well that I’m not going crazy. This is one hell of a set up and when I find out who’s behind it you’re going to wish your mammas never met your papas.”

 “I’m not a doll, and when that big galoot shows up with his gun, I’ll be gone and you’ll have nuthin to show im.”

 Clinton picked up a portable computer cart and stood poised to swing it like a baseball bat.

 “Just try and get past me you freaky whatever you are!”

 “Ach, a few little tricksees and a fine brought up lady like yerself is ready ta draw blood. It’s like I’ve always said—“

 Suddenly the little man glanced at the door way and promptly disappeared in a puff of green smoke.   A second later a baritone voice emanated from the entrance to the suite. Clinton rushed out to meet the Secret Service agent who had recently been assigned to her. She experienced mixed emotions when she discovered that the five women were now looking and acting normally.

 “You activated your alarm, Ma’am. Begging your pardon but you’re only supposed to do that if there is a situation.”

 “Andrew, I’m going to request a different suite. I want you to have this apartment searched for---anything out of the ordinary,” the woman said carefully.

 The huge black man shrugged and stole a glance at the other women who were just as surprised as he was.

 “I’ll put the request in to my supervisor, Ma’am. Of course a change of suites won’t be a problem.”

 “You mean you can’t just order the appropriate technicians in?”

 “Well Ma’am, it would be a help if you could explain exactly what your concern is.”

 “I’ll show you part of it,” promised Hillary as she lead the way into the bedroom.

 There she stopped short, then frantically opened the travel case to be certain that the leprechaun doll had in fact disappeared.

 “It was right here on the bed,” she stated half to herself. 

 “What was on the bed, Ma’am?”

 “It was a high tech doll designed to gas light me. Somebody is trying to convince me that I’ve gone off my rocker. I want this investigated. I want you to go over this apartment with a fine tooth comb. I want answers Andrew.”

 The Secret Service struggled to keep any hint of doubt off his face and said, “Well Ma’am, any investigation would begin with you telling me exactly what you experienced with the doll.”

“It was designed to convince me that it was a real live leprechaun,” responded Clinton. “Then it—hypnotized me or something because it convinced me that my staff had been frozen in time. Now what the hell would you call that but gas lighting?”

Clinton then marched back into the living room, more than a little frustrated at how well the enemy was doing.

 Andrew stole another glance at the now deeply concerned entourage. Unfortunately he was not well acquainted with anyone on the staff so he wasn’t prepared to ask the question that was probably on everyone’s mind at the moment.

 Instead he simply asked, “Ms. Jefferson, did you hear or experience anything out of the ordinary while Mrs. Clinton was in the other room?”

 “No,” responded the senior ranking aide.

 The agent then gathered up all of his courage and said, “Mrs. Clinton, we will of course comply with your wishes. But Ma’am, it’s only logical that we also consider the possibility that your medication is having an adverse effect on you.”

 “There’s only one thing wrong with your theory…”

 Clinton then held out the travel bag she had taken with her out of the bedroom.

 “Marcy, is this my bag?”

 The woman in charge of the luggage stepped forward and examined the case closely.

 “Why---no. The handle is different. They must have given us the wrong bag at the airport. I’m real sorry I didn’t notice it at first Ma’am.”

 “That’s all right Marcy. What are the odds of us getting the wrong plaid bag and me finding a leprechaun in it? Like I said Andrew, I want an investigation.”

 With that the agent could only shrug and say, “Yes, Ma’am, I’ll get the ball rolling.”

 Tony Vincenzo was the kind of office dweller who would show up for work in an immaculate three piece suit and look like a ship wreck survivor by late afternoon. He was a newspaper editor who was married to his work, with a secondary passion that came in the form of delicatessen take out. Not surprisingly, the gentleman had a bit of a weight problem, but his piercing dark eyes and high cheekbones suggested that in his day he could have been quite the ladies man. Why he never married was fodder for speculation amongst the few women who worked at the Independent News Service. (I.N.S.)

 The men in the office didn’t know or care, especially their best reporter who, like Vincenzo, was married to his work. That man’s long standing bachelorhood was certainly no mystery. One glance at the man was all anyone needed to explain why the women left him alone.  He was physically fit for man in his forties and he possessed a handsome enough smile, but his suit vaguely resembled a panama that had been slept in.  It almost but not quite matched the white running shoes he was wearing and for added humiliation he sported a pork pie hat that more than one police officer took delight in stepping on.

 His name was Carl Kolchak, and what he did on a weekly basis would make the Watergate break in look like stealing an olive in a supermarket. Kolchak was, to say the least, a very interesting psychological study. Climbing through windows and misrepresenting himself came as naturally as changing the batteries in his camera. Still, if you knew the man you couldn’t help but respect him. To him the truth was everything, and in a city like Chicago that made  him an unwelcome sight wherever a press conference was taking place.

 But the I.N.S. office was a kind a sanctuary for this thread worn knight of the Fourth Estate. There he was under the protective wing of a boss that truly understood him.

 “Kolchak, get in here!” the Italian bellowed from the only private office in the low rent suite.

 The veteran reporter rose from his humble desk and with a fatalistic expression headed in for another meeting of the minds with a true kindred spirit. The other reporters had given up wondering how this maverick employee managed to keep his job. Half of them assumed that the two men must have served in the war together. The others figured that some form of blackmail was being employed.

 “I harken on swift wings,” said the reporter, who never bothered to close the office door behind him.

 “We’re going to get another visit from the city building inspector and I’ve got this strange feeling that you have something to do with it.”

 “Why would you think that?”

 “Because you are the only loose cannon on this urban ship.”

 “Could you be a bit less nautical Captain Pastrami?”

 “You step on toes and the people who belong to those toes retaliate by complaining to government officials. They in turn make things uncomfortable for me, reasoning quite logically that I will then fire you. But they don’t know about our fine, almost spiritual relationship, so the ax always falls on my neck alone. I’m tired of that Carl.”

 “I’m still waiting to hear what I did wrong,” the subordinate responded calmly.

 “That Latino gang leader who threatened to cut your throat was actually a Federal mole. Somebody saw you leaving his place of business  so to be on the safe side they pulled him out.  A very unhappy mouth piece promised payback and I’m guessing that the building inspector is it. What I want to know is how can you be smart enough to know what’s going on in this city but stupid enough to sneak into places dressed like Peter Lorre?”

 “Once again we are shown the unbelievable arrogance of some of our government officials,” Carl declared in a self righteous tone. “The man put a knife to my throat. He aged me ten years at least and then he has the gall to have some mouth piece call you up and protest that fact that I accidentally blew his cover.”

 “You couldn’t have known that he was a Fed Carl, but the point is that if you are too conspicuous in those lousy clothes of yours. A man with your work M.O. should be dressed like a pizza delivery man. Then you could at least keep the shoes.”

 “The content of this dressing down indicates that I’m not really in your dog house Tony. You’re just unhappy, as always, because you’re more vulnerable than you were in the old days. We both know that Tony. We both know that.”

 Vincenzo’s eyes rolled upward for a moment and Kolchak waited for the commencement of round two. But it didn’t come. Probably because the editor’s troubled stomach was coming to the rescue.

 “Enough. I want you to get over to the Conrade and touch base with my contact there. Hillary Clinton checked in a few hours ago and then demanded another room.”

 “So what? Maybe the first one had a view of something Donald Trump owns.”

 “She then ordered the room searched for electronic hardware,” Vincenzo added.

 Kolchak thought about that for a moment and said, “I what a pizza delivered to my desk after I get back.”

 “Half a pizza,” amended the editor, who was getting tired of sandwiches anyway.

 The former First Lady’s eyes darted towards the full length mirror for an instant, before placing the right foot into the bubble bath that awaited her.

 “Damn gravity,” she said to herself.

 “What did you say, Ma’am?” asked an aide from the next room.

 “Nothing,” responded Clinton in a semi defeated tone.

 The woman eased down into the hot water and reflected for a moment on the fact that you gotta be tough to grow old. There were a lot of people in politics who could jokingly refer to her as a kid, but her life was really a matter of millage rather than years. You don’t get to the White House without a helluva lot of work. Now it was catching up with her, and she was desperate to keep that truth from the public.

 Suddenly she caught a movement out of the corner of her eye. The first emotion to register was fear. After all, nobody likes to face a threat naked. But the fear was quickly replaced with rage. Getting Hillary Clinton mad was always a bad idea, but doing it in bathroom ranked right up there with Monica Lewinsky.

 “Anybody! Get in here now!!” Clinton bellowed at the top of her lungs.

 There was no response, and the bather could detect any sounds coming from outside the bathroom.

 “Damn it to hell!” she yelled while arming herself with a back scrubber.

 The leprechaun took up a position in front of the door. Experience had long ago taught him that when bathing lasses get angry, they sometimes resort to spraying water.

 “Do ye think that a gentleman like me self would intrude upon yer privvicy with lecherous intentions? I’m here because I cannot go home until our business is concluded.”

 “Whoever is at the controls of this robot is going to making license plates until he is old and gray,” voiced the naked woman.

 “Five-hundred years of the bloody English language and I still can’t comprehend what is bein said half the time,” said the little man with a sad shake of the head.

 “I’m going to get every single one of you,” Clinton growled while pointing the back scratcher as if it were a gun.

 The little man then cocked his head thoughtfully and asked, “Could it be that ye dunna believe that I’m fer real?”

 “Enough! I order you to turn and face the door!”

 “Ach—did I not just tell ye that I’m over five-hundred years old? Do ye think you’ll be showing me something I’ve never seen before now?”

 “That doll is a drone. That means cameras that violating---everything!”

 “Me English is failing me for certain. But I’m thinking that I need to prove me self so that we can get to the bargaining.”

 The tiny man then snapped his fingers and the scrub brush in Clinton’s hand disappeared. In the blink of an eye the very same cleaning instrument appeared in the leprechaun’s hand, looking considerably larger being held like a garden rake.

 “Oh shit, I’m being gassed with hallucinogens,” the woman instantly concluded.

 “I don’t know what yer sayin, but the code demands that we do a deal before I get me self home. So here’s what: I’ll be meeting your lovely self in yer own home. Ye should be more agreeable to things there. Be prepared Me Lady. I won’t be wasting more time with ye.”

 With that the little man simply vanished.

 Clinton threw a robe on and entered the living room while dripping water on the carpet.

 “Ma’am?” queried one of several aides who were staring at their boss with grave concern.

 “I’m going home. Tell Andrew I want sensor equipment brought there. I want devices that can detect hallucinogens.”

 “Ma’am?”

 “I’ll give him more details when I’m presentable,” the woman said while turning back toward the bathroom.

 The younger women silently exchanged glances. Something was very wrong with the boss, and bailing out of Chicago suddenly would provide fodder for the wrong kind of Press action. Clinton knew that as well as they did.

 But Hillary Clinton didn’t give a damn.

 Perhaps the number one reason Carl Kolchak took to wearing sneakers so many years ago was because of his propensity for parking illegally. Getting from an improvised parking spot to where the police are doing crowd control often requires a bit of alacrity. So it was for the maverick reporter when he reached the five star hotel. Local press had been assigned to the hotel and they expected their vigil to be a long and boring one. But when the former First Lady transferred to another suite, and the former suite was then taken over by men with electronic hardware, the news hounds picked up a scent that got their tails a wagging.

 Then when Clinton and her entourage left the hotel prematurely, the fourth estate people rushed after the small procession to fire off questions while the limo approached from a reserved car port. Kolchak wasn’t anywhere near the twenty second press gathering. He made a beeline to the broom closet like office of one Thad Dupree, head of hotel security.

 “Carl Kolchak, INS,” the reporter stated with his press card held out in front of him.

 “Yea I know who you are,” responded the fat man with the military haircut. “Tony told me you’d be the worst dressed person in the building. But on the other hand, I’ve seen movie stars that looked just as bad. What is it with fashion statement these days?”

 “Well, if I was a movie star, I’d do better, but this outfit is good for cop wrestling.”

 “Which I’m sure is always a one sided athletic event,” said the man who still lived with his parents.

 “Oh yea, I can take a fall as good as a judo expert.”

 “Crap like that only increases my load of paperwork. Anyway, the word is that Hillary Clinton is becoming paranoid. She checked into a penthouse suite and then demanded to be moved to another suite in less than an hour. Then the boys with the anti bugging devices showed up and went over the first apartment with a fine tooth comb.”

“Did they find anything?”

 “Yea, but the technology suggested that someone was listening to a Kennedy humping some broad maybe forty years ago.”

 “I drove over here for that insightful comment?”

 The security guard shrugged and said, “They couldn’t make the boss lady happy in this joint. I’m thinking she might be flipping out a little bit. Maybe some lucky press guy will have the camera ready when she bites someone in the neck.”

 “The neck would have to belong to someone sitting down,” the reporter joked back.

 Without another word, the man in the crumpled suit headed back to the INS office. If he was lucky, there would be one or two pieces of pizza waiting for him.

 The good citizens of Chappaqua were used to the sight of an occasional government issue Chevy Suburban heading towards the community’s most noteworthy residence. But while many folks were heading home for supper they noted a regular procession of a dozen such vehicles heading for the famous Clinton residence. In that abode a resolute woman stood prepared to defend her home from a mysterious adversary that obviously didn’t have the guts to show his true colors. Quite probably a far right wing whacko who had access to technology that didn’t belong in such extremist hands.

 Well, she would kick him and his all the way back to whatever redneck swamp spawned him. She had a reputation for being tough and when that son of a bitch invaded the privacy of her bath he ordered all six helpings of tough and by God he would get it when he came to her next.

 “Mr. Donaldson is all the equipment deployed?”

 Agent Sam Donaldson was wearing his best poker face as he prepared to answer the question. Logic demanded that he address two possibilities: One was that someone with impressive resources wanted a possible presidential candidate attacked---psychologically. The other theory was that Hillary Rodham Clinton needed additional medical scrutiny. Well, it wasn’t his job to deal with the latter only the former. Besides, dizzy spells and hearing voices is one thing, but robots dressed up like leprechauns didn’t seem like a classic hallucination to Donaldson. So he would give the ex head of the State Department the benefit of a doubt.

 Hell, what else could he do?

 “Yes Ma’am. We’re set up to receive everything included ghosts.”

 Clinton gave the agent a suspicious side glance.

 “What was that?”

 “EMF sensors Ma’am. Electo Magnetic Fields. Sometimes people try and use them to detect ghosts. In our case, we’re just covering all the bases.”

 “Well, I have a hunch that nothing is going to work as long as I’m in the company of others, so I’ll be heading upstairs now.”

 “All the cameras are on. Of course we have a female agent monitoring the bathroom.”

 “That is appreciated,” Clinton responded dryly.

 Then she ascended the stairs to wait in her bedroom for the results of the upcoming contest. Would the high tech pranksters get past her security screen? She had a gut feeling that they would. That would be alright if the intrusion yielded information that would be of benefit. Anything logical. Still-- a line from Shakespeare had been haunting her all day now. It was something she couldn’t get out of her head.

 “There are more things in heaven and Earth Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.”

 Clinton sat up in bed and opened her Bible. She had always considered it a bitter irony that so many political opponents also owned them. Why did they have to cross swords with her back in the days when she was only trying to do the right thing? Why?

 Then suddenly he was taking up his favorite station in front of the door.

 “Well Lass, I hope yer prepared ta be more reasonable at this meeting.”

 The woman put her Bible aside and regarded the intruder with grim resolve.

 “You’re not going to win this game. I’m not going to go screaming out of this room, nor will I shed a single tear. I may go to my grave not knowing what you are, but you will not keep me from running for President.”

 “What a peculiar thing fer ye ta be havin on yer mind. But no matter. I’m not yer enemy Mum. I’m here ta grant ye three wishes, jest as soon as ye can accept that I’m fer real.”

 The woman rolled off the bed and then towered over the doll like creature. As if reading her mind the creature sidestepped so that she could exit the room without stepping on him. (Which certainly crossed the woman’s mind.) Once again she found herself in a domicile full of statue like people. Apparently alive but inanimate.

 “Jesus but I’m getting tired of this,” she muttered.

 “I understand Mum. The more educated ya become, the harder it tis ta trust yer own eyes. But if ye would just make a wish, I could help ya along sort ta speak.”

 “You can give me anything?” queried the ex lawyer.

 “No, but there be a great many wants in this world, to be sure.”

 Clinton let out a sigh and said, “Give me an apple.”

 The little man smiled and said, “Hold out yer hand Mum.”

 Clinton frowned at that. Did hallucinations come with fruit?

 A second later there was an apple in the woman’s hand. Clinton tried t squeeze it but it wouldn’t yield to the strength of her fingers. She cautiously brought it up to her nose, then took a bite.

 After hastily chewing and swallowing she put forth a very logical question.

 “After I get my three wishes, what happens next?”

 “Ya pay me and I’ll be off.”

 “And what pray tell would be the price tag on three wishes?” the woman asked with a predatory gaze.

  “A pot a gold, and dunna say yer poor, with so marvelous a home to be livin in.”

 Clinton stood there at the top of the stairs and laughed while holding on to her apple.

 “What a trip. Ok, I’m going to play along because as much as I hate you, my number one emotion right now is curiosity. So tell me, would you have the power to undo past mistakes?”

 “Well now, if yer talkin about savin the Titanic, I’m afraid I’ll be disapointin ye.”

 Clinton’s smirk quickly vanished.

 “I was just kidding. You mean you can actually make me think that a past mistake has been erased?”

 “Dependin in its size,” the little man specified.

 “How about the throwing of a shoe?” challenged the female cynic.

 The little man’s look turned inward. He was going to have to invent some sort of translating device. Even in America he was having trouble with the big folk, and he was really getting tired of it.

The date was April 14^th, 2014. The place was the Mandalay Bay Resort in Las Vegas. Hillary Clinton was doing a bit of stumping, and the security people were alert, but more comfortable than they would have been on a golf course. A tiny figure darted nimbly through a crowd of Democrat supports. His invisibility would have stymied a modern scientist as much as a nuclear reactor would have baffled Sir Isaac Newton. But the only thing that mattered was that he was there and he was able to slip a piece of paper into the woman’s collection of speaking notes without detection.

 When the former First Lady opened her notes at the speaking podium she instantly took notice of the note that was written on a different type of paper. It read as follows:

 “A woman is going to throw a shoe at you. She is a harmless nut but you can use her to your political advantage. Be ready to catch the shoe and then hold it up as a trophy. That way you will be one up on President Bush who merely dodged out of the way.”

 Clinton showed the note to Andrew who didn’t like it at all.

 “Ma’am, it could be an explosive device, or even some sort of cutting weapon dipped in poison. Who knows what will happen when your hand closes around the object? I’m against it.”

 “Of course you are,” responded Clinton. “It’s your job to be against it. But I want to do it. So don’t do anything unless you actually see a recognizable weapon being readied.”

 Andrew let out a sigh. That was the crappiest set of instructions anyone had ever given him, and if she ever made it back into the White House, she would never be allowed to make a call like that again. Twenty minutes later a chronic malcontent named Alison Ernst let fly with a black and orange Puma athletic shoe that was deftly caught by Hillary Rodham Clinton.

 “Holding up the prize with a look of triumph the guest speaker said, “I’m one up on George W---he didn’t catch his!”

 The crowd roared its approval, and at the back of the meeting area, under a draped refreshment stand, a puff of green smoke caused a rather stout woman to wrinkle her nose and wonder who was smoking a controlled substance in the area.

 Then Clinton was startled by the reappearance of her unwelcome guest.

 “Where did you go?”

 “Ta grant ye yer second wish,” answered the little man.

 “You wanted to catch the shoe thrown at you by some daft woman last spring.”

 “I did catch it,” responded the woman.

 The little man smiled and withdrew a piece of paper from his pocket. It was the note that had warned Clinton that she would be mocked in Las Vegas.

 “Well I’ll be damned,” she muttered while inspecting the note.

 “That would be an easy third wish,” stated the leprechaun.

 “Are you saying that I’m an evil person?” growled the statesperson.

 “No Darlin, nuthin of the sort. But ye desire power, and ye dunna understand how dangerous that can be to the soul.”

 Hillary’s eyes lowered in quiet contemplation, but only for a few seconds.

 “I’m not sure what you are, but I know what I am. I’ll always be remembered as someone who lusted for power---but it’s not true. What matters is being part of historic changes. That’s something that no ordinary person can understand.”

 The little man’s eyes narrowed in suspicion and he asked, “Surin now ye wouldn’t be asking me ta make ye the big chief of America?”

 “A bit much is it?” Clinton responded with an impish grin.

 “Aye Lass, it is that.”

 “Well---could you compel the current leader to make a public statement that would benefit me?”

 “Only if it be the truth,” responded the leprechaun.

 “Oh it’ll be the truth alright,” assured the woman.

 Then as an afterthought the woman added, “And it’s going to feel good.”

 When the word reached INS that the President was on his way to Chicago to make an important speech, Tony Vincenzo decided it would be covered by Kolchak. With people starting to throw inanimate objects at important officials, the people in protective services were getting apprehensive. Vincenzo knew that his maverick reporter would either connive his way into a good coverage, or get his body parts rearranged because he broke one too many rules. Either way it would be a good day for the editor.

 President Obama chose to return to a favorite haunt; the Two Prudential Plaza. The two building complex did not consist of twins. Building Two, which now played host to the President, was taller than it’s companion structure and was the thirteenth tallest building in the U.S. Most of the people assembled in the main meeting hall were reminded of happier days, when hope and change could possibly mean anything you wanted it to be. None of them were ready to join Rush Limbaugh and become ditto heads, but now they were no longer content to listen to soaring rhetoric. Now they wanted a return to the glorious 1990s when it felt good to be a Democrat for more than just a couple of years.

 Virtually no one in the audience knew what the subject of the speech would be that evening. That was quite amazing, but not as much as the fact that Hillary Clinton was waiting in the wings to take her turn at the podium once Obama was finished. Many pundits had been predicting for weeks now that Clinton would commence distancing herself for the president. It didn’t require a crystal ball to see Obama as a lame duck President in the future, and most people reasoned that Hillary would want to keep a few hundred miles between them. (Maybe more if his motorcades got any longer.) But now there they were in the same progressive den, and all they could do was politely wait for the first shoe to drop. (Hopefully straight down.)

 The President started his speech by explaining that he knew all along that a sharp turn toward socialized medicine would never bring him to where he wanted to go. But he pointed out in all truthfulness that as a result of his learning experience with the free market system, the status quo was no longer ignoring the plight of people with chronic ailments. The talk went along those lines until it was time to discuss the future of the Democrat Party.

 “I must be candid with you all,” began the President, “I chose to run for President because I sincerely believed that it was time for a semi radical agenda. Only by shocking the status quo was I able to bring about a reaction that could benefit a large number of disadvantaged people in the long run. However, my lack of knowledge in certain key areas became immediately evident to fellow Democrats such as the Clintons, and they did step forward to caution me not to bit off more than I could chew. As President I was inclined to place my faith in my own instincts, as well as my sense of justice. I believed that the free market system could adapt to anything, but now I’ve come to better understand the work horse that is the free market system, and I realize that I should have worked with it much as the Clintons did back during their watch.

 Looking down the road I can clearly see the day in which the Clinton mode of thought should again be brought to serve the American public……..”

 Everyone listened with varying degrees of amazement; everyone except the man in the cheap suit that is.  Kolchak was making his way around behind the right wing of the stage area. Perhaps his highly tuned reporter’s instincts were telling him that the story of the day stood with Clinton and not Obama. Or perhaps the urge to snoop had become an addiction like smoking or biting your fingernails. In any case Carl followed his impulses until they lead him to where he could spy on the second most important person in the hotel.

 He fully expected to run afoul of a Secret Service agent who would become a door where he desired a window, but to his delight that didn’t happen. He found the former First Lady alone in the wings, watching the President from her private vantage point. For an instant it appeared as though the woman was going to place something in her mouth. A hard boiled egg or some sort of hors D’oeuvres. But as the seconds passed Kolchak realized that she was holding the mysterious object just in front of her lips, and she was mouthing something, as if speaking into a microphone.

 The reporter’s brows knitted in puzzlement. Was the former First Lady using some new high tech gizmo that was recording her thoughts on the speech? If so the main part of the device would have to be hidden in her hand. Kolchak inched forward, knowing that he would be discovered any second, but hoping that he would learn something useful before getting the big brush off. But to his amazement, the woman ignored him and continued to dictate into the strange little device. Kolchak thought it a bit odd that Clinton would be alone, even though she would be going on stage momentarily. Something strange was afoot. He could just sense it. He stopped six feet short of the woman, ready to be rebuffed for invading the woman’s privacy, but she remained focused on what she had to say.

 Suddenly the dictation became an eye popping revelation as the startled reporter realized that what the woman was saying was exactly the same as what the President was stating in his speech. Apparently Clinton had memorized Obama’s speech and was now reciting it for some reason. This strange oratory exercise continued for another two minutes, then it became time for the President to introduce his co-speaker, which was done with lavish praise. Clinton’s side glance toward the reporter was like the crack of a whip, and Kolchak flinched despite himself. Then the woman left him alone and proceeded out into the light to receive an almost thunderous ovation.

 Any other reporter would have quickly retreated to the safety of the seating section reserved for the Press, but Carl actually stepped forward to where light and darkness met and set his gaze on Obama who was standing on the opposite side of the stage. Carl noted what he thought was a very strange expression on the President’s face. He looked like a man who had just made a mistake and realized that he would now have to live with it.  Clinton’s speech was only half completed when a security guard chanced by and noticed the reporter that had strayed.

 Kolchak was actually amazed that he had gotten away with the trespass as long as he did. He had no way of knowing that Clinton ordered the stage manager out of the stage wings so that she could wait for her introduction in private. The reporter was an unpleasant surprise, but he was a fly on the wall that made no difference. Clinton couldn’t object to him much since she had ordered even the guards to leave her alone. Carl could have returned to the office unscathed if he had stayed behind the other reporters from then on, but of course he could do that. When it was time to take questions Kolchak brazenly stood up and addressed the woman who had lashed at him with her eyes.

 “Mrs. Clinton, did you and the President work on that very find speech together? I couldn’t help but notice that you were reciting it to yourself precisely as the President spoke.”

 The guest speaker’s laugh came instantly. It was shared by most of the assembly.

 “Yes, it was pretty much what I would have wanted the President to say.”

 Then with a cheerful glow the female speaker turned and almost bowed to the thin man to her right.

 “Yes, thank you again Mr. President for all those wonderful words of praise. But of course the good folks here representing The Fourth Estate were bound to tease us about our need to support each other. I guess it just goes to show you that we politicians are darned if we do and darned if we don’t.”

 Everyone laughed at that as well, and the reporter was smart enough to realize that he had been given the only response he was going to get. He was also experienced enough to know that he had something, and he wasn’t going to give it up just because Hillary Clinton was envisioning him on the prow of a slow boat to China. A couple of hours went by and the reporter expertly kept an idea  on his quarry from a distance. Of course the security people were doing the same thing with him. Carl had no idea what he was looking for, but when the former First Lady discreetly dropped something in a waste container, Carl noted it and calculated that it was time to put the surveillance people at ease.

 Twenty minutes after the V.I.P.s were out of the building Carl returned to watch the hotel staff folding up chairs and tables. Fortunately the security people had also gone outside to make sure that none of the limos would have trouble leaving the premises. Carl made his way to the trash container and was relieved to discover that it was almost empty. That meant he wouldn’t have to dumpster dive up to his elbows through coffee grounds and the like. When he found what he was looking for he then double checked to make certain he truly had the correct ridiculous object. It was a stone, a pure white stone about the size of a small plum.

 Carl stared at it with a look of disbelief until someone tapped him on the shoulder.

 “Mr. Carl Kolchak, I’m Agent Skelly of the Secret Service. What do you have there?”

 “I think it’s a rock. Feels like one anyway.”

 The agent helped himself to the object and then said, “I concur, it’s a rock. What were you going to do with it?”

 “Nothing, I just dug it out of the trash and I was briefly wondering what it was doing there,” the reporter stated truthfully.

 “And what were you searching for in the trash?”

 “Oh, just human interest material. What kind of gum does Mrs. Clinton like to chew, that sort of thing.”

 “Well Mr. Kolchak, I got the word on you. The local authorities are kept well stocked with aspirin because of you. So here’s what: you will stay at least one-hundred feet away from Mrs. Clinton until she leaves the city. Got it?”

 “Absolutely. Hey did you notice how strange the President looked. It almost seemed like he was having a stroke or something while Mrs. Clinton approached the stage.”

 “I don’t want to read anything of that sort in the paper Kolchak, and your vantage point was unauthorized. I don’t want to see a repeat of that sort of thing.”

 “Can I keep the rock?”

 “Do promise not to throw it at anyone?”

 “I only stone women with cheap whiskey, and I haven’t done that in years.”

 The agent rolled his eyes at that and left the reporter surrounded by Latino maintenance people. Carl stared at the rock again and then placed it in his pocket. Nothing was making any sense, but the good news was that he was being chased away. That was an encouraging sign. It meant that there was something to be chased away from.

 Tony Vincenzo was actually in a good mood when Carl got back to the office, so naturally anyone who wasn’t hard at work typing away would need to hear about it. Since it would take Carl about two minutes to hang up his hat, get some coffee and fire up his computer, the boss had approximately that much time to share his thoughts with a captive listener.

 “I was listening to the President’s speech in my office and I must say I was very impressed with his magnanimous gesture.”

 Carl paused to think about that for a moment before saying, “Yea, he pretty much threw himself under the bus when he said that he should have spent his terms in office doing things the Clinton way.”

 “Absolutely. I’ll be Hillary was overwhelmed.”

 “Well---not exactly Tony. The truth is she knew the speech by heart before it was given.”

 “How do you know that?”

 “I watched her during the speech. She was mouthing the words as he spoke them.”

 “You must be mistaken. If you were a lip reader you would have fled this office more than once after some of the phone calls I’ve gotten concerning you.”

 “Yea, well, my article isn’t going to write itself so if you will excuse me Tony…”

 The editor took the hint and headed back to his office. Carl opened his word processors and then happened to glance over at the neighboring desk of Miss Emily Cowles; septuagenarian extraordinaire and champion of the oppressed. (If the oppressed has gray hair.) Carl never could fathom why Vincenzo had hired the dear woman. Her typing was almost as slow as her walk, and she was constantly working on projects that had nothing to do with newspaper writing. In any case she was a God send to Carl. She always took his side when Mt. Vincenzo was erupting.

 “What have you got there, Emily?”

 The elderly woman smiled affectionately at her office ally and said, “It’s a pictorial book on stone collecting. My niece has a little girl who’s become interested in that sort of thing. I’m trying to get some idea what is the best stuff to collect.”

 “Strange that you should bring that up. I dug this out of a trash receptacle earlier today.”

 “Marble,” stated the woman after Carl handed the object over.

 “You won’t believe who had that thing in her possession this very day.”

 “Beatrice the cleaning lady?”

 “Nope. Hillary Rodham Clinton threw it in the trash just a few hours ago.”

 The old woman coaxed her memory to fire on all neurons. She paged through the book slowly until she found a picture of the stone on her desk.

 “Connemara marble. Mostly found in the Galway Mountains.”

 “Good Lord but you can be amazing at times,” declared the reporter.

 “Not really. Little girls love to things that are supposed to have magical properties. Things they can make a wish on and keep under their pillow. You know.”

 “Not really, but pray continue.”

 “In the process of deciding what kind of stones my niece should look at, I just paid extra attention to the ones that often are used as charms. This is one of them.”

 “Galway sounds Irish.”

 “That’s right. Say have you noticed that St. Patrick’s Day is becoming less and less important? When I was a child the German kids would come to school wearing orange just to tease everyone wearing green. Nowadays you could paint your skin orange and no one would understand what you were trying to do.”

 The reporter was only listening with one ear as he searched his memory for something.

 “I talked to one of Tony’s contacts in the hotel. He said that while on the way out, one of Clinton’s staff members mentioned a leprechaun doll. Did Mrs. Clinton travel to Ireland recently?”

 “I don’t believe so, but nowadays a flight across the Atlantic is no big deal. When I was young—“

 “I’m going to play a long shot hunch and bring that rock to someone I know,” Carl interrupted. “A man who sleeps, breaths and eats Irish culture.”

 “The man who owns the Lucky Charms cereal franchise?”

 “No, this fellow worshiped at the feet of actress Maurine O’Hara.”

 “Your friend must have more varicose veins than I have,” said Emily.

 “Not exactly. He was the first born of a woman who worked as O’Hara’s housekeeper.”

 “No fair Carl, that was a terrible clue you gave me,” protested the woman.

 Carl’s smile was friendly, if somewhat mischievous. When he was finished writing his article he grabbed his hat and skipped out of the office before his boss could cast a critical eye on a work that was always adequate, but never exactly what the editor wanted. St. Luke’s parochial school was on the other side of town and he wasn’t going to waste the remaining business hours suffering Tony’s pointless critiques.  Carl got to the old school just before closing time but that didn’t mean that he was free to just walk through the newly installed double glass doors. The crumbling bastion of religious thought had been built when a different America existed. Now Carl had to address a little black box attached to ancient stone and push a pressure plate made of gray steel.

 “Yes?” inquired a female voice that didn’t appreciate callers so close to quitting time.

 “Ah yes, I’m here to see Devin Leavitt,” the reporter said with unnecessary volume.

 “Alright, you won’t need a visitor badge for that. Just take the first stairs down to the boiler room.”

 “Yes, I’ve been here before.”

 That was good news to the office worker. Only people who knew their way around ever bothered to call on the maintenance man. People of that sort could let themselves out after everyone else was gone. Carl was certainly good at that, especially since in many cases he would have to sneak in to a building in the first place. But the load click of a magnetic lock told him that even old Catholic schools were becoming places where you didn’t just walk in as if you were living in a free country. A few moments later Carl was moving slowly through a subterranean realm of exposed pipes, damp stone walls and cracked concrete floors that got flooded every few years.

 Devin Leavitt; Irish cultural aficionado and expert in all things mechanical was found seated in a huge heavily padded chair that was patched here and there by duct tape. His desk was more of a work bench and above that hung a bulletin board with about three dozen photographs of people visiting places he had directed them to. Carl had met Leavitt in Viet Nam while functioning as a war correspondent. Leavitt would never admit it to anyone, but the truth was that Viet Nam was the only time in his life in which he felt important. The fact that people were getting killed, maimed and displaced didn’t keep him from harboring fond memories of that chapter of his youth.

 Kolchak had tagged along with the man for three days, and that was quite a testament to the reporter’s courage. You see Leavitt was into bomb disposal, and some of those firecrackers that the Irishman dealt with could take out half a city block. When the reporter ended up in The Windy City, he was delighted to discover that he could visit Leavitt and consult with him on matters that go BOOM. But now he had come to ask about something that was relatively harmless. At least that’s what he thought at the time.

 “Devin, are they going to let you take that chair with you when you retire? I don’t think you could bear to be parted from it,” the reporter joked as the two men shook hands.

 “I do confess that I’m almost as fond of it as you are that silly hat that many a cop had stepped on in your illustrious career. So what brings you my way?”

 “Hillary Clinton had this in her possession not long ago. I have reason to believe that its some kind of good luck charm from the Old Sod.”

 Carl handed the stone over to the Irishman who’s eyes lit up with interest.

 “Hillary Clinton you say? Well why not? If Napoleon could believe in the importance of luck, why not a Secretary of State?”

 “The thing that’s got me intrigued is the fact that I saw her talking into the rock as if it were a microphone during the President’s speech earlier.”

 The man chuckled at the vision that created and then asked, “How did you get it?”

 “She threw it in the trash shortly before leaving the building.”

 “Well, if you think she’s gone nuts, I don’t see how I can help you with that. I’m not a shrink, just a boiler man.”

 “So you don’t have any insights for me?” the reporter asked rhetorically.

 “About a rock?”

 “Yea,” Carl responded sheepishly. “I’m not sure what’s crazier: a presidential hopeful talking into a rock or a reporter who thinks there’s something unnatural about the Galway Mountains.”

 Leavitt shifted uncomfortably in his chair for a moment and then made a decision.

 “Carl---some folks used to believe that the Galway Mountains was where the Little People originated.”

 “Midgets?”

 “Leprechauns,” corrected the Irishman.

 “Ah ha! That means that the old instincts are still dependable!” declared the reporter.

 “How so?”

 “A leprechaun doll was mentioned at the hotel where Clinton was staying.”

 “Amazing, but I can’t help you with that any more than I can help you with the rock.”

 “Just tell me this: If a leprechaun were to give a politician the power to do anything she wants for a few hours, what would he want in return?”

 “Legend had it that all the little folk cared about was gold. That and amusing themselves with the local populous. Leprechauns create miniature shoes in secret workshops, but that doesn’t take up much of their time. They live simple lives and when they see the Big Folk getting grand ideas about the fancy life, they can’t resist the urge to play tricks on such well to do. I knew a successful fellow who had his limo shipped to Ireland so he could tour the country in style. When he got close to the Galway area, his power windows kept opening every time it rained. I’m not saying that the little folks were responsible, but you can be sure that some of the locals would be thinking along those lines.”

 “But what does a magical being need gold for?” inquired the reporter.

 “No one knows, but gold fever in a man is nothing compared to what is in a leprechaun’s heart. Some say that a leprechaun places his very soul in his pot of gold. It is something beyond our ability to understand; like magic itself.”

 “Do you believe such creatures actually exist?”

 The janitor smiled at the question and said, “It’s hard to believe in mythical creatures here in the United States. Our only true wonder is the computer. But like the vampire of central Europe, if the little folk exist in Ireland, they will stay where their roots are. Otherwise they will be reduced to becoming figures on a post card on St. Patrick’s day.”

 Kolchak barely heard that last statement. His thoughts drifted back to Las Vegas Nevada and a nightmare he had tried very hard to forget. He would never understand why fate had chosen him to slay a vampire back in Tinsel Town. Perhaps it was because in order to destroy a monster, you first have to be willing to uncover the existence of one, even though it will open you to ridicule. In any case, that was the reason he was working for I.N.S. It was either that or dream up stories for supermarket tabloids.

 “Does the leprechaun have any vulnerabilities?” asked the reporter.

 “Only one: his pride,” responded the janitor. “He has to pour his magic into his creations and when he does that, he’s like humans for a few hours.”

 The reporter smirked at the man in the beat up chair and said, “For a man who doesn’t believe in legends, you certainly have all the specifics.”

 “There are more things in Heaven and Earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy,” the Irishman quoted.

 Kolchak let out a long sigh and replied, “You’re preaching to the choir my friend.”

 The little creature clapped his hairy little hands together in satisfaction and said, “Now we’ll be getting to the matter of payment.”

 “Of course. I must tell you that paying with a credit card does tend to spoil one. Getting this much precious metal together was almost as much work as putting Bill in the White House,” joked the former first lady.

 The leprechaun stared at the modest bundle of ingots that two security guards had placed on the floor of the home’s entry way an hour ago.

 “I’m guessin thet there is about one third payment,” said the gnome like creature.

 “Are you out of your mind? You’re looking at a million dollars!” exclaimed Hillary.

 “Says some new fangled Yankee money changer. I only care about weight. That there isn’t enough ta fill a proper pot.”

 “It is generous compensation for a presidential speech. Besides, you just said you wanted more gold than single man could carry. You must have noticed that there were two guards bringing the gold into the house. God help me if word of this reaches the press.”

 “Its not enough. But I noticed that while it was being carried in, and it gave me time to think on a bargain thet would please us both.”

 “I’m listening,” responded Clinton with a wary expression.

 “I canna make ye president, but I can help ye along the way. I’ll even let ye keep the gold there on the floor. In exchange you’ll be grantin me permission ta train yer grandchild in the noble art a leprechaunin.”

 “Yer daughter is with child. I want to teach the child how to be a leprechaun at the proper time.”

 The woman staggered back two paces and then steadied herself.

  “What black sorcery are you talking about?”

  “Tis just about time fer me ta take on an apprentice. Yankee birthed little folk might be able to guard the Old Sod from men comin in with big shovel contraptions and the like. Yer grandchild would know wonders scarcely imagined. You have me word on that.”

 Hillary Rodham Clinton then towered imperiously over the pompous imp and said, “My grandchild will have the best of everything. I am awed by your powers as anyone would be, but when it comes to my family I will not bend a knee before anyone under the rank of God. Remove all thoughts of my family from your mind, or I swear I’ll have men with guns testing your power.”

 “The child will have the best of everything you say,” responded the Elf. “Does that mean he’ll live to be a thousand years old? That is my age, and the only reason I haven’t seen more of the world is because I chose naught to.”

 “Because you don’t like being stuffed in a travel bag,” Hillary retorted. “What good is it to live a thousand years if you have to do it as a freak?”

 “I’ll be teaching ye better manner,” blustered the little man. “Ye think fancy contraptions and grand homes are all that matter? Ye said ye weren’t really after power. You’ll be needin more than you have before the child is three. We have a magical contract, Madam, even though yer too ignorant to understand that that truly means.”

 Suddenly an avalanche of soot preceded a filth covered man who had to cough out half the contents of a chimney before he could contribute anything to the strange dialogue he had been listening to.

 “You?” barked the home owner incredulously.

 The leprechaun waved his hand but the much larger male just kept struggling to clear his eyes and ears of the troublesome soot.

 “Sakes alive, he should be like a statue, but I’ll be damned if he isn’t still moving.”

 “You mean your powers don’t work on reporters? My God, there is a bitter irony for you,” growled Clinton.

 “Wait---what is it ye be thinkin of me Tall One?” queried the gnome.

 “I’m thinking that you may be small of stature, but any people who don’t believe in you will have no defense against you,” the reporter answered flatly.

 “Aye, yer side steppin me powers with belief. Give me yer name Lad; O’Brian or O’Malley perhaps.”

 “Kolchak. Carl Kolchak.”

 “Surein but his is a strange country,” the little man muttered to himself.

 “I’m not as ignorant as most of the Big Folk,” boasted the reporter, “and I know that if the grandchild of a U.S. President is going to join the ranks of the Little Folk, that child will need the finest shoes ever made by little hands. It’s plain that you have magic, but do you also have a cobbler’s skill?”

 “You’ll find out soon enough,” promised the little man.

 “Mrs. Clinton, you should insist that he show you now,” Carl said as if he were the woman’s most trusted advisor.

 Hillary  had no idea what the reporter was trying to accomplish, but she was mindful of the fact that he hadn’t been frozen in time and space like so many others, and she sensed that Kolchak was running a con that might be more effective than any S.W.A.T. team.

 “Yes, my grandchild must wear the very best of everything. It would be a scandal if any Clinton were to be photographed wearing something factory made.”

 “Well at least now yer talkin sense, even if yer request is a bit odd. Of course me humble abode was not built with humans in mind. But I believe yer head will just clear the ceiling.”

 “I want this scribe to accompany me,” Hillary added quickly.

 “Why in heaven’s name?”

 “An important person like myself never goes anywhere alone. Besides, do we need anymore humans poking their noses in our business?”

 The leprechaun bowed to the woman’s logic and went to stand between the big folk.

 “Lay a hand each upon me shoulders. Best ye close yer eyes. Wouldn’t want ye soilin yerselves with the disconcertin view.”

 An instant later the three of them were standing outside a grass covered mound that never would have gotten the human’s attention if not for the door and porthole type window to the right of the entryway.  Clinton immediately thought of the dwellings used by Hobbits in the fictional Lord Of The Rings created by the great authorr J.R.R. Tolkien. As for Kolchak, he was staring wide eyed at noting in particular.

 “My God, am I to believe that we’re actually in Ireland?” Clinton breathed in wonder.

 “Aye, in front of me home and upon land I could walk blindfolded. Now watch yer head Big Fella,” warned Patrick Deeneen. “Stay even with the Lady and you’ll be alright.”

 The reporter turned awkwardly toward the mound and almost tripped over his own feet.

 “I see ye kept yer eyes open. Well, to yer credit, yer britches are still dry. Yer a better man than most with that.”

 The little man then lead the way in through a door that looked very old but was still solid enough. Everything within was constructed of old wood or hand wrought iron. Four huge candles were quickly lit so that the clumsy Big Folk wouldn’t trip over a stool or box. Any antique dealer would have been impressed with the array of iron specialty tools used for leather working, but since everything was in miniature, the “toy” implements would have been of limited value.

 “I’m surprised you haven’t gone blind working in such poor light all these years,” said Kolchak while shaking off the last of his trauma.

 “A leprechaun is like a cat. We do very well with just a bit a light.”

 Hillary lowered herself on a stool that didn’t quite suit her but it was preferable to standing and getting cobwebs in her hair.

 Sizing the place up as any female would do she said, “It could definitely use a woman’s touch.”

 “I’d sooner give up drinkin,” responded the hairy little man.

 “Does that mean that a female leprechaun would not suit you as a protégé?” Clinton asked with great interest.

 “Ye misunderstand Mum. Female leprechauns keep their own persons tidy enough, but they don’t fuss over their workin nooks like a human might. Most of em sew things rather than cobble, but I witnessed some fine female shoe work about two-hundred years back. That Lass was no more a feared of a bit a dust than I am---and she was a fine arm wrestler to boot.”

 “So now you’re going to show us what you can do with leather?” pressed Kolchak.

 “Aye, shouldn’t take more than an hour if we forgo liquid refreshments.”

 The little man then sat himself down in front of his work bench and took up the first piece of leather he would require for the project in mind. Both of his guest noted with interest that every move of the leprechaun’s hands were lightning fast. It was as if they were watching a “how to” video set at higher than normal speed.

 “Is your speed the result of centuries of repetition?” asked Kolchak.

 “In part,” responded the little man, “and in part because I put me powers into the work.”

  That was what the reporter was hoping to hear. With just a bit of trepidation the placed the surprised leprechaun in a reverse bear hug and lifted him off his work stool.

 “Uh, Kolchak , I respect your courage but this could get you turned into a toad or something,” warned Hillary.

 “No, he’s powerless for at least a couple of hours,” said the reporter while carrying the doll like creature out of the earthen dwelling.

 “Yer not as thick as I thought ye were Mr. Kolchak. Very well then. Carry me off in any direction ye please.”

 “We’ll look for cultivated land. Where there’s a crop field there will be a farm house. Once we know exactly where we are, we can call in the police.”

 “To what end, Lad? I’ll be disappearin the moment they take their eyes off of me.”

 “After the entire police precinct gets a good look at you. Then we’ll all come back here and do what we can to turn your secluded little home into a major tourist trap.”

 “Poxy American English. What is a tourist trap?”

 “Let me spell it out for you: Your private life is not going to be so private anymore. People will come from all over the world to visit this place---and probably steal a souvenir to take home with them,” promised the reporter.

 “Ye don’t have the clout ta doo all thet,” the little man scoffed.

 “Maybe he doesn’t, but I most certainly do,” put in Hillary.

 “Well then there be no point in me draggin me feet as it were. We’re in the middle of a two-hundred acre stand of woods. Kevin O’Brian’s farm is to yer right and it straddles the county road. Hold yer course and you’ll be seeing the farm house in less than an hour.”

 The three of them trudged along between alders, ashes and oaks. Kolchak was doing a fine job of maintaining a straight course, considering his lack of experience with the great outdoors. But  a strange mist rose up amongst them and the reporter sensed trouble even before it finally brought their visibility down to about four feet.

 “You said you knew your way around here blindfolded. Well, now is the time to prove it,” the reporter said to his captive.

 “I prefer not to. Ya see, as me powers return to me, I gain control of light weight things first. I can’t move a man, but I’m doin well with the air around us.”

 “So you have control of the fog,” said Clinton.

 “None other. We’ll just keep walking in circles until all me powers return—and then there’ll be a reckonin.”

 “Of course I could break your neck before that happens,” Kolchak pointed out.

 “Aye, but you won’t. First thing I noticed about ye is thet ye di not have the killin look in yer eye. When yer dealin with giants fer many a year, ye have to be able to size a man up so to speak.”

 “And what about you?” pressed Clinton. “How do you feel about killing?”

 “Fear not. It would never come to that. But I might find the need to wipe the slate clean, and that does not always work out as intended.”

 “What does that mean?” asked the reporter.

 “It means thet I’d be takin away some of yer memory, but I don’t know exactly how much.”

 “I take it the human brain is no simple mechanism even to the likes of a magical person,” Kolchak speculated.”

 “Exactly so. You might ferget a few days—or maybe years.

 Being a lawyer, and a politician, and the wife of a big league fibber, Hillary decided it was high time to open negotiations with this little twerp. The big twerp would be easily handled if she didn’t end up weaving baskets somewhere.

 “Mr. Deeneen, it seems to me that it would be to your advantage to actually own this land. Am I correct in assuming that the owner of the property is kept away with magic?”

 “Not at all. This here is a wildlife refuge. Thet there is the beautiful thing about government: when they take over a piece of land, they keep if fer ever.”

 “Does that mean there’s coal on this land?” the Democrat thought for an instant.

 “You said that you might have to wipe out our memories. Does that mean that your still open to the idea of sending us home with all our marbles?” asked Kolchak.

 “Only if Mrs. Clinton will stop actin as if her grandchild is facin a fate worse than death,” responded the leprechaun.

 “Oh for God’s sake, how would you feel if someone wanted to take your flesh and blood away from you and raise the child in a strange place?!” exploded Clinton.

 “If it meant turnin the child into the fastest shoe maker in the world, I would be honored,” the little man stated sincerely. “Ye know, most folks don’t appreciate the craft because they are never forced to live their lives with bare feet.”

 A dark cloud of silence descended over the woman, but Kolchak came up with another question.

 “Are you saying that making shoes is the most important thing in a leprechaun’s life?”

 “Aye, even more so than gold,” answered Deeneen.

 “So what do you think of our modern manufacturing methods?”

 “I wouldn’t peek at me sister’s buns, and I don’t invade the priv-er-cy of other craftsmen neither,” the little man said with a look of distain.

 “What does that mean? Are you saying that you have never been to a shoe factory?”

 “Why in the world would I be wanting to watch big folk makin shoes? Watching two inch worms would be more exciting.”

 “Because they can make more shoes than you can in an hour,” stated Kolchak.

 “Aye, an army of em.”

 “No, just one human.”

 “Yer daft.”

 “Mrs. Clinton, could you find me a cell phone video of a shoe being made?” asked Kolchak.

 The woman blinked once in puzzlement, then took out her cell phone and began surfing the web. In no time at all the leprechaun was getting a sampling of American Magic as Clinton’s viewing screen showed a fast forward and slightly condensed video of a modern shoe making process. The narrator took the three of them through four basic processes: cutting, machining, lasting & making, and finishing. Deeneen was enthralled; so much so that he didn’t even bother to ask about the mechanics of the cell phone. But when the video ended, a quiet sort of melancholy came over the little man, which Kolchak noted immediately.

 “A penny for your thoughts, Deeneen.”

 “I just watched a human outdo me---for the first time in nearly one-thousand years.”

 “So now you’re thinking that you’ve lost your purpose in life?”

 “I don’t know what to think,” the little man said flatly. “But ye can put me down now. I won’t be fightin ye. I’m not much in the mood ta fight anyone right now.”

 Kolchak set the leprechaun down and said, “You know, we’re becoming a disposable society, buying things that are cheaply made and then throwing them away after a year or two. A man like you could make sure that a quality product will always be available. That might be arranged if you would be willing substitute an apprentice for a factory.”

 Kolchak then looked meaningfully at his female companion who stepped in quickly.

 “I could fix you up with a modern shoe making facility right here in Ireland,” stated Clinton. “We could use the gold I was offering you. “All I ask in return is your pledge never to try and take anyone’s child away from its parents.”

 The little man thought on it for a moment and then spat into a hand before offering it to Clinton. The woman surprised the reporter just a bit by taking the offered hand and shaking it.

 Kolchak then asked, “Does this mean there won’t be anymore  shenanigans taking place between yourself and the President?”

 “I make no promises, Mr. Kolchak. Obama was supposed to make the Democrat Party stronger than ever. Instead, he---well---even your very worthy Fourth Estate hasn’t been able to cloak our lack of success. Personally I blame it all on the damn international economy that is here to stay. Those people on the other side of the planet are going to be tough to deal with now that they have better things to do than stand in a rice paddy.”

 “That has been true for a long time now, Ma’am.”

 “It’s new ta me,” put in the leprechaun. “So the Orientals are not growin rice anymore? Well I hope they aren’t far inta the shoe trade. I’ll be facing enough competition as it tis.”

 The two big folks exchanged glances but said nothing. Deeneen would have to find out about Chinese products on his own. The poor little fellow had gotten his life turned upside down in just a few moments. It wouldn’t be wise to burden the leprechaun with too much knowledge while they were still in his power.

 “Are your powers returning yet, Mr. Deeneen?”

 The little man wiggled his ears, twitched his nose and suddenly pulled a huge bottle of something out from under his coat. He pulled the cork, took a swig and almost gasped from the liquid fire that had gone down his throat.

 “Aye Mum, got er all back in all its glory. Ready ta take ye home and pick up the gold if thet be agreeable to ye.”

 “Anytime you’re ready, sir. Oh, and we should drop Mr. Kolchak off in Chicago before we do anything else. I’m sure he’s anxious to recant all those ridiculous rumors concerning my stay in the Windy City.”

 “Now wait a minute!” the reporter, but it was too late.

 The last thing Kolchak saw was Deeneen’s impish grin as everything vanished and was replaced by the terrifying view of the Atlantic ocean far below him.

 Kolchak found himself at the bar in a drinking establishment only one block from his apartment.  He immediately ordered an Irish whiskey and after being served, took his drink to a secluded corner of the emporium. Then he took out his trusty tape recorder and hit the record button without even looking at it.

 “I have mixed feelings concerning the Democrat’s chances in the next presidential election. Our current president has pretty much used up all the hope that the voters are willing to grant the leading party. However, if a certain shoe maker should ever tire of his trade and decide to join the world of electronics, it could ultimately have a profound effect on the international economy. Any politician taking credit for that, would be in a very advantageous position indeed. Of course I’m probably looking too far down the road. Perhaps a century or two.”

 With that the reporter slammed down his drink and headed for his apartment, where a change in undergarments was very much in order.