The St. Patrick’s Day Bar Tab of Destiny
- Wayne Allison
- Feb 28
- 4 min read
A St. Patrick’s Day Story of Debt, Shenanigans, and Poor Life Choices
The Debt
The night before St. Patrick’s Day Danny opened his front door and found a beer-stained envelope duct-taped to his mailbox.
It reeked of whiskey, regret, and possibly Guinness.
Danny sighed, ripping it off. “Either the HOA is really mad about my St. Paddy’s lights, or I’ve been cursed.”
Jimmy, lounging on Danny’s porch drinking a beer he didn’t pay for, leaned over. “Could be a leprechaun lawsuit. I told you not to mock their tiny hats last year.”
Danny ignored him and flipped the envelope over. Four words were scrawled in shaky green ink:
“You owe a debt.”
Inside was a scroll—an actual parchment scroll, like it belonged in a medieval castle.
1 Guinness: $8
3 Jameson Shots: $24
1 Bucket of Green Beer: $20
Something Called “The Emerald Abyss”: ???
One Throne Rental?: ???
Damage to Property: $10,000
Soul Forfeiture: (Pending)
Danny squinted. “Wait, what the hell is an ‘Emerald Abyss’ and why did we rent a throne?”
Jimmy frowned. “Throne rental is a thing? Because I absolutely want one for my birthday.”
Danny barely had time to process before his phone buzzed in their group chat.
Leo: What the Hell is this scroll?!
Mark: Why does it say “SOUL PENDING”?! WHOSE SOUL?!
The Soggy Shamrock (And Its One-Night-Only Staff)
Thirty minutes later, the four of them were parked outside The Soggy Shamrock, a place they had all been to before but never quite remembered leaving.
It was a staple of their drinking habits—a year-round Irish pub famous for its dangerously strong Guinness, questionably legal promotions, and their legendary one-night-only staff on St. Patrick’s Day.
Leo checked his phone. “Google still says ‘Permanently Closed’, which is obviously wrong.”
Mark sighed. “We’ve been here a dozen times, but I literally only remember it on St. Paddy’s.”
Jimmy grinned. “That’s because it’s the only time you drink like an Olympian.”
Danny exhaled. “Okay. We go in. We ask questions. And we don’t—”
Jimmy was already opening the door. “NO PROMISES.”
Inside, the bar was packed, glowing under green neon lights, the air thick with Irish music and questionable decisions.
And sitting at the far end of the bar?
A towering Irishman in a pinstripe suit, swirling a whiskey like he had seen far too much nonsense in his life.
His emerald tie shimmered unnaturally, and the gold rings on his fingers glowed under the dim lights.
He looked up as they approached, smiling way too knowingly.
“Ah, lads. Took ye long enough.”
He slid a thick, yellowed scroll onto the bar and tapped it once with a gold-ringed finger.
“Yer tab is due.”
Mark coughed. “Soooo, define ‘due’ in a way that won’t make me cry.”
The man grinned. “Depends. Ye got ten grand on hand?”
Danny scoffed. “Who the hell carries ten grand in cash?”
Jimmy shrugged. “I dunno, but I’d love to rob that person.”
Leo rubbed his face. “Look, we don’t remember what happened last year, but clearly we were too drunk to pay. What are our other options?”
The man’s grin widened.
**“Find O’Malley before midnight… or prepare to lose yer luck forever.”
Clues They Left Themselves
Their only clues were:
A half-burned napkin with a riddle.
A photo of Leo sitting on a throne wearing a “Getting Shamrocked Tonight” tee.
A tattoo on Jimmy’s arm that DEFINITELY wasn’t there last year.
A mysterious green T-shirt in Danny’s backpack that read “Dibs On The Redhead.”
Danny held up the shirt. “I don’t remember buying this.”
Leo peered at it. “You probably didn’t. That’s the problem.”
Mark chewed his lip. “Okay. What if last year’s version of us left these as clues because we KNEW we wouldn’t remember?”
Danny squinted. “Mark, are you suggesting our drunk selves time-traveled to save us from ourselves?”
Mark exhaled. “Listen, man, I don’t know. I just know this feels like our fault.”
Leo folded his arms. “Only one way to find out.”
Jimmy cracked his knuckles. “Alright, boys. Time to retrace the worst night of our lives.”
The Night Gets Worse
After multiple bars, a poker game with a leprechaun, and out-drinking a literal ghost, they finally found O’Malley—tied to a chair, absolutely furious.
Turns out?
O’Malley wasn’t just a bartender.
He was a trickster leprechaun, and last year, the guys beat him in a drinking contest.
The prize? A lifetime of good luck.
The problem? They blacked out and never claimed it.
Mark crossed his arms. “Okay, but why do we still owe money if we won?”
O’Malley struggled against his bindings. “Because ye didn’t finish the deal! Ye ran off before ye could claim yer reward!”
Jimmy nodded. “Yeah, that sounds about right.”
Leo turned to the suited man. “So, if we… untie him, our debt’s cleared?”
Finnegan O’Toole smirked. “Oh, no, lads. Ye still have to pay. I just wanted to see ye suffer a little first.”
The Final Gamble
Now, they had one final choice:
Pay the tab in full.
Or roll the Dice of Destiny.
Mark panicked. “WHAT IF WE LOSE?!”
Jimmy shrugged. “Then at least we’ll finally know what happens when we run outta luck.”
The dice tumbled across the bar.
They all leaned in.
The dice came to a stop.
And then—
Danny woke up in his bed.
Beside him sat a perfectly poured pint of Guinness.
On the floor was the same green T-shirt from last year, now reading:
“Property of The Soggy Shamrock.”
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