A 100 word long piece of flash fiction. Pogue mahone.

The despair of that ancient and proud indigenous race fell on deaf ears until that grey March morning in New York City. Is it any wonder, after seeing the image of his people made a grotesque caricature for the purposes of tourism, of seeing their culture and their traditions sold out, made foolish and twee for the sake of souvenirs and gaudy trinkets –“the shilling of the shillelagh,” as one columnist later wrote- that the leprechaun sat down cross legged in front of the St Patrick’s Day parade, emptied a bottle of poteen over his head, and struck a match?