It occurs to you that your quest could probably be cut short a truckload of lethal choices, if you can get this pint-sized redhead to grant you a few wishes. "Alright, Lucky. I want you to grant me three wishes. Number one..."

"Hold up, laddie. What be this bullshite about wishes? I'm a leprechaun, not a genie, ya fool." Lucky says. "I said I'd answer any question ye might have. And to the question 'can you grant me three wishes', the answer is NO."

You think for a moment, then grasp his leg.

"Oh, cripes, what's this?" Lucky sighs. "What, now I have to guide you to me pot o'gold, or sumtin'?"

His annoyed sighs soon become agonized screams as you begin applying pressure to his pencil-thick kneecap.

"Eeeeh! Aaah! O-OK! I'll grant ye yer damned wishes! Bastard! Stop that!" he shrieks.

You smile pleasantly. "I knew we could work something out. Now let's see, my first wish... I want you to bring me Pestilential Pete's Treasure!"

Lucky snaps his fingers, and in a flash a great trunk appears before you. Laughing triumphantly, you step forward to open the trunk when it hits you - who needs Pestilential Pete's treasure? You have two wishes left. You could wish for all the riches of the world, or complete dominion over the universe, or to be Tom Seleck. Anything your heart desires!

"C'mon, laddie. Ye have your treasure. Now let me go!" Lucky whimpers.

You chuckle. "Not just yet. For my second wish... I wish to have Barry White's voice."

Lucky sighs and snaps his fingers again. You suddenly feel your vocal chords stretch and widen, as if your throathole just became the Grand Canyon.

"Now are ye done?" asks Lucky.

"One more thang, baby." you say, considering that you've got one shot at pure happiness left. "I want you to hook me up with a real babe."

This time, Lucky's face breaks into a wicked sneer. "Aye, yer wish is my command, laddie." he says, and snaps his fingers again.

The skies darken, clouds converge into a sinister black vortex, and the sun turns as red as blood. The wind picks up and you can hear the distant crash of thunder. The ground seems to shake under your feet. Something is wrong, something is horribly wrong. As you gape at the sky, you lose your grip on Lucky's leg, and he quickly slips away. A soft crunching and cracking sounds behind you. You whirl around in time to see that the surface of the statue of Abe Lincoln is crumbling slowly. An eerie glow slips out from between the cracks. As the statue's face falls off in chips, a last thought zooms through your head, screaming the Babe, Abe the-

What follows after that is no longer coherent, as the savage claws of Abe Lincoln tear your soul apart and subject your to an eternity of torment in the bowels of hell. Which wouldn't be so bad if Lucky would stop popping in every Wednesday to point and laugh at you.

YOU WANT TO MAKE A WISH?
WISH YOU DIDN'T HAVE TO START OVER!