You Are a Ghost. (Sign Here Please)

by Andrew Stanek

“He’s very good at this,” Nathan said, admiring Colton as he took off.

  “Good,” Brian said. “Then it should take a while for your serial killer to catch him and that will give us time to go over certain salient points. I have revised my plan to include the contingency of you dying.”

  “What plan is this?” Travis asked, looking at Brian querulously.

  “My plan to get revenge on Director Fulcher for refusing to change my name and Nathan for getting in my way,” Brian said. “I need to go over it with Nathan. We must discuss it to ensure that it is smoothly and efficiently executed and all the proper documentation is filed.”

  Nathan checked his watch, which wasn’t there because this was a different body from the one he’d died in. His stomach rumbled.

  “Can we talk about it over lunch?” he asked brightly. “I’m famished.”

  Chapter 15

  As Karl Marx once failed to say, if religion is the opiate of the masses then vodka is most surely the vodka. Dead Donkey was a very hard drinking city, as what with the arsons and the muggings and the mayor, many people found that a very large quantity of potent alcohol was the only thing that could get them through the day. However, whenever you ordered a drink in Dead Donkey - whether it was water or a beer or just a simple pint of acid - you were basically taking your life into your own hands because liquids in Dead Donkey were very rarely what they were supposed to be. This was basically owing to a massive terms-of-trade crisis that broke out after a previous administration switched from the US dollar to the Burmese kyat and people thereafter found that they could no longer afford alcohol, since the exchange rate was so bad. To continue to give people the illusion of alcohol, vendors had subsequently filled beer cans with soda and sold it as beer, but this presented a problem because now all the soda cans were empty. When soda drinkers started demanding soda, the same vendors panicked and filled the cans with mineral water, but then when the mineral water drinkers came in, they suddenly wanted their usual beverages, so the vendors had to fill the mineral water bottles with Red Bull, and so on down the line. These days, you were lucky if water came out when you turned on the tap in Dead Donkey, as opposed to something like natural gas or wiper fluid, so severe had the crisis become. Vodka was largely unaffected because vodka was made locally in Dead Donkey, and it’s pretty much impossible to accidentally ferment and distill wood chips and maize into anything other than hard liquor, though on occasion Dead Donkey brewers have had it come out toothpaste.

  However, this was all in the past. The liquid substitution crisis had eventually passed, thanks in no small part to the intervention of the mayor, who was pretty hard drinking himself. The mayor had resolved the crisis by harnessing one of the most powerful business blocs in Dead Donkey: the travel agencies.

  People who say that Dead Donkey travel agencies’ businesses amount to legalized hostage taking are very much mistaken. Their practices are far from legal. The way Dead Donkey travel agencies work is simple: they lure people to the city with promises of free transportation and lodging, then charge them through the nose to leave once they get there. Thus, the tourism business was lucrative and booming in Dead Donkey, but was monopolized by a handful of companies with access to teleportation technology. The mayor, in one of his more lucid moments, realized that there was an enormous opportunity here to get the city government cut in on the profits while at the same time forcing alcohol sellers to properly label their beverages. At the mayor’s instruction, the city council passed a series of bills designed to gentrify and renew an entire section of the city near the university, then subsidize fine-dining eateries in the area, then direct ‘tourists’ (captives) to these upscale establishments. The city got a share of the tourism revenues as the tourists spent money in the restaurants while they waited for the travel agencies to warm up the teleportation machines, and at the same time the upscale dining places absolutely demanded that the vendors properly label their beverages before they bought them. After all, you can’t exactly run a fancy Italian restaurant and recommend the claret only for it to turn out to be molten tar inside the bottle. The restaurants’ whole value proposition was that they didn’t engage in that kind of chicanery and couldn’t tolerate it.

  Vendors subsequently relented and agreed to start properly labelling their products while the restaurants earned valuable US dollars that they used to buy more alcohol, therefore resolving the crisis in its entirety. Any goodwill the mayor earned through this stroke of genius was quickly used up, though, as he frequented the area at most times of the day and got thrown out of each of the new restaurants in turn and snuck in the back to try to steal booze.

  Nathan’s stomach was rumbling. He’d worked up an appetite with all this dying and turning into a ghost and being brought back to life that he’d been doing. He decided to visit a nearby restaurant. The one he had in mind happened to be one of the many upscale places that had been created as part of the mayor’s initiative. Together with Travis and Brian, he started to happily march out of the park. Because he hadn’t gotten use to not floating quite yet, he seemed to be tripping and leaning on Brian a lot. Brian looked like he was getting fed up with it.

  The trio climbed into Mr. Big’s car and Nathan took the driver’s seat. He didn’t know how to hotwire this kind of strange old vehicle so he took the keys from Brian instead and started up the engine. On the way out of the university parking lot, they happened to pass a wedding ceremony at the little Chapel of Atheism that they had seen on the way in. Nathan slowed down out of curiosity to try to get a look at the happy couple. At first he didn’t see either the bride or the groom, but he could hear the atheist minister reciting ceremonial lines.

  “If any person here knows just cause why this loving couple should not be joined together in secular matrimony, let him speak now or forever hold his peace.” The atheist shuffled aside to reveal the bride and groom. They were a horse and a bucket with a face painted on it.

  Brian raised his eyebrow.

  “At least the couple isn’t gay,” Travis said as he glanced out the window with vague interest. Then he added, “or colored.”

  Travis Erwin Habsworth does not believe in political correctness.

  After a moment, he realized that the other two were staring at him.

  “Have I mentioned that I’ve been to Ethiopia?” he asked.

  Nathan put his foot on the gas pedal and the wedding quickly disappeared into the distance, but he continued to frown at Travis.

  “I don’t support his candidacy, but that’s exactly the kind of blind bigotry that Mr. Smiley Face is trying to put a stop to through his mayoral bid,” Nathan scolded. “You should be ashamed of yourself. Smiley faces are people too, and they deserve to be treated with respect, just like you and me.”

  “You do not deserve to be treated with any respect whatsoever, Nathan,” Brian advised.

  Nathan spent the rest of the trip in a huff and quickly drove to the nearest restaurant in Mr. Big’s car. It was a faux-French restaurant called Le Restaurance de Faunce. The place had just opened for lunch and Nathan, Brian, and Travis were quickly shown to a table.

  “I’m starving,” Nathan said, and opened the menu. The menu was in French. Nathan couldn’t read French, but tried to imagine what dish he would order if he could. Travis, meanwhile, glanced over the menu and then tossed it aside.

  “I’m not hungry,” he said simply.

  Brian was busy filling out a complicated form that estimated his expected costs for the meal and notified the accounting department to prepare to reimburse him for possible expenditures related to it. Thus, by the time the waiter arrived, only Nathan had given any thought to his meal.

  “Bonsigor,” the mustachioed waiter said as he approached. He straightened his dark jacket and tie. “Is monziur ready to order?”

  “What do you recommend?” Nathan asked, having totally failed to imagine what he might order.

  “For nomsieur, I recommend Le coup de pied francais. They are the chef’s spe
ciality.”

  “I’ll have that then,” Nathan agreed, and handed the menu back to the waiter.

  “And for you, monseigur?” the waiter asked, turning to Brian.

  Brian squinted at his forms.

  “Do you have anything that costs exactly $16.43?” he asked.

  “We monleiur, there is the $16.43 special. I will have it brought at once.”

  “Nothing for me,” Travis said, and the waiter bowed and retreated. Once he’d gone, Travis turned to Brian.

  “You were about to explain your plan for getting revenge on Director Fulcher and Nathan.”

  “Yes. I’ve had to modify it slightly to account for the fact that Nathan is prone to dying almost all the time. Nathan, the next time you die I need you to file a complaint with Ian’s complaint department. That is phase one of my plan in getting revenge on you.”

  “Good,” Nathan said. “What am I complaining about?”

  “I was hoping you had something very substantial, something with a lot of damage involved that Director Fulcher wouldn’t want to have to deal with. Can you think of anything like that?”

  Nathan thought about this for a moment, then slowly started to nod his head.

  “There was something that Director Fulcher seemed unhappy about. Do you remember the third time I died?”

  Brian ticked off Nathan’s deaths on his fingers.

  “That was the time you were crushed by a bathtub, mauled by a badger, and died of a stroke all at the same time.”

  “Yes,” Nathan said. “That time, I was mauled by the badger again in the receiving line, and it wouldn’t have happened if Director Fulcher’s instructions had been followed exactly.”

  “Excellent,” Brian said. “That’s perfect. You must file a complaint about that and demand Director Fulcher answer it. He won’t, but it’s all part of the plan. Now, here’s the tricky part. Because of the contract that Nathan has with Director Fulcher, Nathan can’t actually sign any more forms, so we need to think of a way for Nathan to file a complaint without filling out a form. In the bureaucratic world, that is very difficult. I think our best chance of doing so will be for me to pre-prepare a form now and write an explanatory note saying that Mr. Haynes cannot fill out a form himself due to contractual obligation... but then again... it would be best if Director Fulcher was not aware that I was behind this... let me think. I will come up with something.”

  Travis had been very quiet today, particularly as he listened to Brian’s explanation.

  “Let this be a lesson to you about bureaucracy, Nathan,” Travis told him. “To the bureaucrats, the formalisms and paperwork become an end unto themselves, and they forget what the purpose behind the forms ever was. It is one of the chief weaknesses of bureaucracy.”

  “I haven’t forgotten my purpose,” Brian said, while at the same time hurriedly and covertly checking his notes under the table to remind himself what his purpose was. “Filing a complaint. Yes, after you’ve done that you will need a way to return to life again. To that end, I suggest you steal a Bureaucratic Transit Device, as you did last time. Your doctor has advised us that you will need another body if you happen to die again, though. That presents a difficulty. You are out of bodies.”

  “I still have the body that I left behind at my house,” Nathan said. “It’s on the carpet and making a horrible mess.”

  Brian shook his head.

  “That body was very badly damaged when you last died, and Dr. Vegatillius said he needed five of your used bodies to restore your current one to working order. I don’t think one will be enough. We will have to devise another way to get you a new body unless you wish to remain a ghost after you die next.”

  “I don’t think I’d enjoy that at all,” Nathan objected. “I just went through all this hassle to stop being a ghost in the first place.”

  “I know,” Brian answered.

  Travis was busy arranging his utensils and condiments into amusing shapes on his plate. He spoke without looking up.

  “Nathan, while I do not think Brian is working in Director Fulcher’s interests, I also feel that you should not trust him. He is actively working to get revenge against you as well as Director Fulcher, and it would be foolish to go along with his schemes. You’d be much better advised to escape the city, as I have mentioned.”

  “That sounds like a good idea too,” Nathan said. “Why don’t I do that instead? All this business of complaining and stealing a device and becoming a ghost again sounds like it could be a nuisance.”

  Travis repositioned his spoon so it was at a right angle to his fork and super-symmetric with his knife.

  “You’ll escape Dead Donkey, then? Good. Once you reach the outside world, you could become one of the most important anti-bureaucratic figures in history, Nathan.”

  “I’m not very interested in that, but it sounds different,” Nathan agreed. Somewhere rattling around in the back of his head were Director Fulcher’s words from their last meeting.

  “But this must be very boring and stale for you, Mr. Haynes... It happens again and again, day in, day out. You see the same old faces, the same bureaucrats on this side and the same lunatics on your side... Don’t you think it’s time for a change?”

  Maybe Nathan’s life had fallen into too much of a routine, and he could do with a change of scenery and pace. Traveling was starting to sound like an excellent idea.

  The waiter returned with two plates. He plopped down the first one in front of Brian.

  “Zee $16.43 special, montieur,” he said to Brian. The plate was about 40% carefully decorated duck meat that had been irregularly cut, the remainder being various vegetables - onions, peas, lettuce, parsnips, garlic, and celery, all oddly mismatched and topped with a single beansprout.

  Then the waiter turned to Nathan.

  “And for you, lomsieur, the chef’s speciality - Le coup de pied francais.”

  He planted a plate in front of Nathan. It was a single grimy old boot.

  “It’s a boot,” Travis observed.

  “We monsieb,” the waiter agreed. “A single boot, carefully glazed with the house special sauce and then broiled to perfection in mixed vegetable and chicken broth, slowly simmered for almost an hour, and then cooled and served chilled atop a bed of lettuce and mixed spices. It is -” he smacked his lips and made a wild gesture with his hands “-magnifique. Would monsoor like to see the wine list to go with his boot?”

  “Yes, please,” Nathan asked.

  The waiter shuffled away and Travis shrugged his shoulders, then went back to arranging his forks and knives into an epic battle scene. Meanwhile, Brian had already begun to silently dig into the duck meat, which was very tasty. Nathan, at the same time, took a few slices out of the shoe leather and began to chew on it thoughtfully.

  “It’s very good,” he declared at last.

  Both Brian and Travis had been around Nathan long enough to know not to question this proclamation. Nathan took another bite, then peered down into the boot and abruptly stopped eating. There was a frown on his face. Again, neither Brian nor Travis said anything. Brian was trying to calculate exactly how long he would have to stay away from this restaurant if he left the place without tipping, while Travis was contemplating the epic and unexpected regimental flanking maneuver that his spoons were preparing against the salt shaker. Nathan continued to frown in silence.

  At last, the waiter came back with the wine list and saw Nathan’s frown.

  “Aay problem, monsewer?

  “Waiter, waiter, there’s a fly in my boot,” Nathan told him. He gestured into the boot. The waiter leaned over and peered down at the sole, then shook his head.

  “My sincerest apologies, mensear. The fly is not part of the dish.”

  “What’s he doing in there?” Nathan asked, gesturing to the fly.

  “It would seem he is preparing to run a marathon, minlear,” the waiter replied.

  “But I don’t want him to do that,” Nathan said. “This is my boot and I’
m trying to eat.”

  “I must apologize again, monqieur. I will summon the manager at once and have a new boot brought out for you.”

  The waiter scooped up the boot and disappeared, then reappeared several minutes later carrying a boot and bottle of wine.

  “A new boot for you, mondier, and a bottle of Chateau d’Malodorant vintage 2002, on the house. The manager has been delayed but will be out shortly to apologize himself. I hope you will enjoy your meal.”

  Nathan happily started to slice off parts of the boot and eat them, while pouring himself some wine and drinking it. After a while he started to frown at the wine.

  “Wait a minute,” he said. “This isn’t wine.”

  He turned the bottle around and noticed it said, “Chateau d’Malodorant 2002 - Industrial Strength Jet Fuel.”

  One of the great advantages of the mayor’s initiative is that everything is properly labeled.

  Nathan shrugged and took another sip as he wolfed down the boot.

  “It really does take away the aftertaste of the rubber,” he said cheerily as he ate. “This is a very good paring.”

  He quickly finished the boot and grabbed the rest of the Chateau for later. Brian had long since finished his meal and progressed to worrying about how to fill in Nathan’s complaint form, while Travis’ utensils were now portraying the Battle of Hastings at exactly the moment William of Normandy’s infantrymen had broken the flanks of the Saxon army. Travis was just arranging toothpicks into a barrage of arrow fire when a new and well-dressed man rushed up to the table, wringing his hands apologetically.

  “I am zee manager,” he said. “I have heard all about the little problem with your boot, señor, and I cannot apologize enough. Your entire meal today will be on the house.”

  “Great,” Nathan said. This was a very fortuitous development because he’d left his wallet on his other body.

  “Additionally, if herr customer would like, the chef will apologize in person. Please follow me.”

  The manager beckoned to Nathan, who stood and followed as they weaved their way through tables in the direction of the kitchens.