by M. V. Stott
Even as a ghost, I still have the scar.
So yeah, Mark’s not exactly top of my friends list, which is why I decided to make him my designated meat puppet; the body I use whenever I need to pass for living. He’s like my toupee, except instead of hiding my bald spot, he hides the fact that I don’t have a body.
Mark pecked his side piece on the cheek, squeezed past her and headed to the Gents for a slash. I breezed by the rest of the punters unseen and phased through the bathroom wall to follow him inside. When I got there, I found him stood at a urinal, phone in one hand, cock in the other. It was nothing to write home about. The guy might act like a swinging dick, but he has a knob like an outie belly button.
I prepared to stake a pitch in Mark’s body. It took me a long time to get the knack of possession. Meat is a tricky medium to work with. Most ghosts never get a handle on it, but somehow I figured out a way. If you asked me how I pull it off, I’d tell you that my work as an exorcist gave me a unique understanding of ghosts and their ways. I’d be shitting you though. All I know is, that after a lot of practice, I learned to inhabit the living. At least for a little while. An hour, two hours at most, and a living body rejects me like an unwanted kidney. That’s just the way things are, don’t ask me to break down the science of it.
I maneuvered behind Mark invisibly and smiled, just like I always did. He used to tell the kids at school that I was gay, but only one of us was getting a man inside of him tonight. I climbed into Mark’s body and felt it jolt and recoil, as though someone had flushed the toilet on his nice, hot shower. He went into spasm, fighting me, doing what he could to resist. He needn’t have bothered. A couple of seconds later I was all moved in; boxes unpacked and making myself comfortable.
I snuffed the air and sighed. It tasted like piss and urinal cake, but the simple act of breathing was reward enough. It’s the little things you miss when you don’t have a body. I zipped Mark up, washed his hands—a habit of mine, not his—and checked my reflection in the mirror above the sink. He was a handsome bastard, I’ll give him that. A swimmer’s chest and the kind of face that gets you places in life. Too bad for Mark that his life was a timeshare property now.
I headed through the bathroom door and back to the bar. I saw Mark’s bit of fluff there, tucked up in her booth, sipping something pink. I breezed right by her and made for the exit.
‘Where are you going?’
‘Out,’ I told her, and carried on walking.
Mark was going to have some explaining to do after I was done, only he wouldn’t have much to go on. He has no recollection of what I get up to while I’m wearing him, I make sure of that. All he’d have was guesswork. Did he have too much to drink? Did he black out? Did the light from a full moon turn him into a werewolf? (those are real by the way, plus vampires, ghouls and witches. No such thing as mermaids though. Mermaids are for chumps).
And look, in case you're left with some lingering wisp of sympathy for old Mark—some moulded by a bad upbringing guff—you should know this: on top of being a bully, a womaniser, and an all-round, subhuman piece of shit, Mark Ryan is a hedge fund manager.
Yup.
Cosy inside my meat puppet, I headed for the canal. A dead woman needed my help. A dead woman with a curious lack of skin.
End Of Extract
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