Are you guys ready for another edition of what's in Chris' old files? Of course you are. Today is a story about a man and a ghost problem. This isn't your linear sort of tale. It's more of a bizarre twist of events. A cocktail of some fancy adjectives. Enjoy!
A sensation of sandpaper grinding my neck overwhelms me. I wish I could burn this shirt, or rip off the collar and use it as the fuse of a Molotov cocktail.
“I don’t really know how you’re supposed to get it done,” my fat-ass boss says. A pool of sweat appears in the thin patch of hair upon the ball of his head—a bush hidden in the swamp. “That’s why I hired you,” he says. “If I could do both your job and mine, than I wouldn’t need you, would I?” he asks.
Words elude me with the same massaging comfort of sword swallowing. All I can mutter is, “Sir, I just don’t think I can handle any more reports.”
My job is real simple. I carry bank rolls. I file papers. No, I am a CEO. No, I flip hamburgers. I solicit sex. It doesn’t matter what I do, just that I do it too much. We all do.
Cold sweat floods my face, which is illuminated by a strange blue sundown.
A tall glass of golden brown whiskey rests on my fake oak mantle. The fireplace is electric and therefore also fake. However, most of these things are worth more than me. No one stays on a sex-hotline more than two minutes, anyway.
Through hazy vision, I stare at the robotic flames. They don’t look that real, but they are still aesthetically pleasing to me.
That hazel glass on the mantle is not my first. Or fourth.
It crept out the door, that ghost, and I chased its ass back inside the office.
A crack runs down along the right side of the mirror. A thunderbolt stream of blood runs down the center of my hand.
I am left staring into the mirror.
On the television downstairs, I can hear the echo of the meteorologist making guesses about the wind. “Sunny. Seventy degrees all day long.”
Good weather will certainly make things easy.
A problem with ghosts is that they always want to tell you their story. Why their lives were so terrible. How their death came to be. But they never know when to let you speak. And they never really get to know you, really. Not even when they’re still alive.
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