by Ash Lomen
(On a dare from Garrett Cook)
It was a hot sunny GayDay in Disneyworld, the southern sky clear and the sun high and beating on the collected backs of the faggots that walked my cobbled streets. I could only imagine what kind of sickly fag-germs they carried on the bottoms of those designer shoes. Fucking GayDay, when did this company get so goddamn liberal. Like I needed to ask. That fucking commie bother of mine, probably a secret fruit himself.
I remembered the days when I was corporeal, and still a lad, my ear pressed firmly to the earth listening for an oncoming train that I could pelt with rocks and accuse of buggery.
Rocks, not a bad idea.
I concentrated all of my metaphysical energy.
A rock pelted the back of Wilson Dent’s head, almost bouncing harmlessly off the puffed surface of his pompadour, but instead imbedding itself, penetrating his hair. It was hard enough hunting down an ectoplasmic target with nothing but hollowpoints, but being mistaken for gay AND having his beloved hair assaulted was just too much to take. He loved his hair, which DID NOT make him gay! And why would gay people attend a GayDay at Disneyworld just to throw rocks at other homosexuals anyway. It just didn’t make any sense.
Dent didn’t care, one too many stray stones meant for a gay head had gotten lost in his expansive pompadour.
Dent moved his hand towards his gun, and in the middle of the theme park, turned to face his assailant.
When the man turned and pulled the gun the milling sodomites around us scattered, and I knew right then that was no queer I had just pelted in the back of the head, that was Wilson Dent, the world famous assassin of unkillable targets who was reportedly so vain he fell in love with… and married… his own pompadour (well perhaps he was some kind of queer). Still, he could kill a man at a hundred yards with a blunderbuss, and that long barreled revolver now clenched in his left fist looked pretty damn accurate. His hair was mesmerizing, like the unshaven bush of my first love, Sally Rutherford… back in high school. Or was that Billy Rutherford?
For a moment I was afraid.
Then I remembered I was a fucking ghost.
Dent turned and fired the gun into thin air, wounding a young groundskeeper and a guy in a Donald costume. He didn’t care about collateral damage; he only cared about his target. Still, unloading all five chambers didn’t seem to do a damn thing to the old ghost he could barely see through the dim distortion of heat.
I again concentrated all of my metaphysical energy (even knowing it would give away my position to those who knew how to look) and this time balled it into a fist. I struck Dent with a blow to his nose, sending out a red spray and breaking his stylish glasses into his face.
(Many years ago)
Dr. Cohen looked nervous, “The cancer is progressing sir, if you want to proceed with the c-
“Shut up you shiftless Jew,” I turned to my brother.
“In case this procedure doesn’t work and I die. Let me finish! In case this procedure doesn’t work and I die. I don’t want you making any deals with the fucking chinks. Shut up. Listen to me. I don’t want their filthy chink hands on my precious Mickey… and if they somehow do get a hold on this company. I want you to kill me. I don’t give a shit if I’m already dead. I want you to find the right man for the job and KILL ME.”
The doctor sputtered, “He’s on a lot of drugs-“
“Shut up you shiftless Jew,” my dear brother said, for once in his life sounding like a fucking man.
He turned back to me, crying now, “I promise you Walt. Disneyworld will be built... with a train around it just like you always wanted. The company will continue and I will carry out your final wishes. I won’t let those fucking ricedick commies get a hold of our sweet Mickey, and if they do... I swear to Satan below me, I will kill your fucking ghost.”
We clasped hands and then (I’m not ashamed to say) cried into each other’s arms.
I even got a little hard.
Officer Sprocket was searching Disneyland for the gunman involved in the hate crime. The descriptions had varied since all the men present had a different and highly detailed explanation of the Gunman’s hair. Officer Sprocket scratched his bald head with a bit of longing.
Then he pushed aside a stray pile of crates and got the surprise of his life. When he told his superiors what he saw that day he was pulled quickly from active duty.
After all, who wants a guy carrying around a badge and a gun who has hallucinations about "The Ghost of Walt Disney" taking it up the ass from a young man stroking his "magnificent" pompadour?