St. Patrick's Day

March 17, the day set aside for St. Patrick, the holy man who drove the snakes away from Ireland.  And now also known as the day I killed fifteen hundred people in one of the greatest massacres in history.

I had made plans to host a St. Paddy’s Day party for my work colleagues.  Working as an accountant is tiresome and let’s face it, watching grass grow is more interesting.  So my reasoning for doing so was that I so desperately needed a drink. 

I had always been invisible at work.  People didn’t notice me, even when I was trying to make conversation.  My boss had passed me over for promotion a million times.  The people that sat in cubicles near me never even asked if I wanted to go for a drink after work.  Hell, I’m certain half the people that were invited to this thing didn’t know my name.  But like good little worker bees, they turned up in drones.

I had decorated the warehouse I had rented for the party in green shamrocks, leprechauns and even had a pot of gold.  It overlooked the river which for this day was a lovely shade of green.  I had twelve kegs of beer on standby, filled with green beer to fit in perfectly with the theme. 

Did I really need twelve?  No.  But I knew people would get suspicious if I only had four or five.

So I had green beer and green food, dyed of course.  Everything was perfect.  Everything was ready to celebrate St. Patrick’s Day.

St. Patrick, the man who rid Ireland of snakes.  Do you want to know something interesting about snake venom?  Some are green, just like the dye used to make the green beer.  That made it so much easier to kill everyone.  One dose of green mamba venom and everyone who had ignored me at work would finally know my name.  It would be the last thing they’d say before rotting to death underneath the shamrocks.

It was a little difficult getting the venom, I admit.  I had to pay off a few people to keep it all very hush-hush.  Thankfully, my time in the slammer after my Valentine’s Day murders had taught me a thing or two about connections.  Yes, I was only in there for a  couple of weeks before I was freed because no judge had signed a search warrant for my house, but in that time I had made some very powerful connections that could get me anything I wanted without raising an eyebrow.

As people began arriving, I pulled out the first two kegs, setting them down behind the bar.  In my very best Irish accent, I ask my first victim what they would have.

“A pint of your very finest beer!” he shouted, clearly already drunk. 

“A fine choice,” I said, placing a frosted glass beneath the key and pouring a full glass.  It would only take one sip before the venom took over, but judging from the scent of booze on his breath, I knew he’d chug it down so fast he wouldn’t taste the flavor.

I was right.  No sooner had I placed the glass on the bar then he tossed his head, draining every last drop from the glass.

He slammed the glass down.  “Another!” he cried, his eyes lighting up, his nose red.

I arched an eyebrow before taking the glass.  My insides were churning.  How long did I have to wait for the venom to kick in?

Turns out, not very long at all.

I turned back with the second glass.  His face was turning green.  I always give credit where credit is due and this guy was doing well to blend in with my green theme.

He excused himself from the bar and made his way out a side exit.

I followed him, curious to know what green mamba venom would do to a person in such a large quantity.

I walked through the back alley.  The stench of death surrounded me.  I had to cover my nose to prevent myself from puking.

I rounded the corner and there he was.  Or at least, what was left of him.

The venom had eaten him from the inside out.  Flesh dripped from his bones and I could see clearly through his stomach and throat.  Wherever the beer passed through him was torn to shreds.  Blood, puss and venom dripped from the remains, forming a pool beneath the body.  His face was twisted in horror as though his final moments had been nothing short of pure agony.  It was actually quite gross to look at but oh so satisfying.

Quickly, I hurried back to the side entrance and grabbed the first couple of guys I could see to help me wheel in the rest of the beer kegs.

Once they were inside the warehouse, I noticed a couple of guys had jumped behind the bar and were handing out drinks to the patrons.

As I shuffled slowly back towards the side entrance I noticed that every single person had a glass of my green ale in their hand and were blissfully unaware of what was about to happen to them.

Exiting the warehouse, I blocked the door with junk from the alleyway.  Boxes, crates, barrels, parts of a fence.  Anything and everything was used to make sure that no one could get out.  I then hurried around to the main entrance and, with the key I had in the pocket of my green vest, I locked the doors. 

Oh sure, there were windows, but even if someone managed to smash one, the venom would get them before they were able to climb out.  That’s the beauty of using a warehouse to conduct crime.  The windows are up very high.

I stood at the main entrance, my ear pressed against the heavy steel door.  I could faintly hear the commotion inside, but it wasn’t enough to fuel my desire.  I had to see what was going on.

I hurried back to the alleyway and began climbing on the rubble of old shipping crates and fence posts until I could peer into a dusty window.

The sight before me was beautiful.  Bodies eaten inside out by green mamba venom littered the floor.  Faces twisted in agony.  Some people were still alive, barely, crawling across the floor, their fingernails gripping the cold concrete in an attempt to survive.  Their screams echoed through the room as the final moments of their pathetic lives slipped before their very eyes.  I watched with glee as they succumbed to their fate.

What a horrid fate it must have been.  There they were, enjoying the day set aside by the calendar as the one day of the year where public intoxication is welcomed.  The next thing they knew their insides were being shredded in a gut-wrenching painful way as the venom destroyed their stomachs and throats.

I climbed down from my perch and started walking back to my car, a spring in my step and a song in my heart.

I climbed into the driver’s seat and checked my breath.  No signs of alcohol.  I smiled as I started the engine.

“I guess the Luck of the Irish was on my side,” I said to myself as I left the docks.  “I always knew drinking was harmful to my health.”