What Connor McFinn Saw On Saint Patrick's Day

What Connor McFinn Saw On Saint Patrick's Day


Connor McFinn stumbled out of his house on the way to the pub.


Usually most nights it was the reverse.


But his brainless Irish-American nephew from Boston was visiting.


And to mark Saint Paddy's Day, his brainless nephew had bought some bottles of American beer and laced it with green food dye.


"Faith and begorrah," his nephew brutally murdered the accent of his homeland with the same severity that MacBeth had stabbed Duncan, " 'tis a fine Irish tradition to drink green beer on Saint Paddy's Day."


"No, it isn't, you moron," Connor said in an exasperated voice, "maybe in America but not here in Ireland.  Here in Ireland, we toast Saint Paddy with Guinness or Murphy's or some fine local stout. This beer is an abomination and blasphemy against the Holy Saint Patrick himself."


"Abomination and blasphemy against Saint Paddy himself," his nephew spewed green beer out of his mouth  all over the brown sofa with the same velocity as an ex-DARPA employee would spew bourbon and coffee all over his computer screen after reading a humourous blog post, "surely you exaggerate, Uncle."


After drinking several green beers, his nephew lay passed out on the floor.


Connor had been forced to drink several pints of the abominable blasphemous substance to please his sister's brainless son.



Once the misfit lay on the floor snoring away, Connor got up and stumbled out the door to head down to the local pub to drink a pint of Guinness and toast the Apostle and Patron Saint of Ireland the proper Irish way.


As he stumbled his way through the meadows and forests to get to the village, he hit his head on a low-lying tree branch.


As Connor sat there dazed under the tree, he noticed a bunch of giant snakes approaching him.


"Jesus, Mary and Joseph," Connor made the Sign of the Cross, "this is what comes from drinking a witch's brew of green beer."


The huge giant serpents with giant fangs approached him.


This couldn't be happening, Connor thought to himself.

After all, the Holy Saint Patrick had personally driven all the snakes out of Ireland.


"Get away," Connor shouted, "you're not real. You're a figment of a warped imagination brought on by drinking that Devil's brew of green beer."


Seeing as how the snakes actually proceeded to eat Connor McFinn in literal objective reality (although that concept would be disputed and denied by a great many modern and post-modern philosophers), his brainless Irish-American nephew's green beer was a Devil's brew from a witch's cauldron indeed.






-A short story
  and vampire novel
  chapter
  written by Christopher
  Thursday March 17th
  2016.