Thousand: Nine Hundred Forty-Five

steps out of the fire, stands over the man sitting cross-legged in the dust. “What do you want?” Jesus says, not looking up. The angel lowers a bundle to the ground and unfolds the cloth. Inside the bundle lies a spider the size of a cooking pot, dead on its back, legs bent in like burnt sticks. “The last leprechaun,” the angel intones, waving a hand over the corpse. “That’s not a leprechaun.” “That’s what a leprechaun looks like when it has starved to death.” “Bullshit.” “I have brought the last leprechaun to you, my lord. You have the power.”