Mortality
A Dude, That's My Ghost! One-Shot
Written by Prez Cipher on April 2nd, 2014
Billy Joe Cobra glanced at the dark clouds beginning to crowd around in the sky outside the small cafe in Beverly Heights. Weird, the sky was just blue a few minutes ago.
But then again, it was an off day for the pop-star. He had, strangely enough, not been bothered by a single fan that day. Not a single call from some crazy that had managed to uncover his phone number. For most, it would be a relief, but for Baruch Cohen it was strange. He'd gotten large amounts of attention since he won that talent thing as a little kid. He was not used to people not adoring him.
So Billy did not pay much attention to the sudden weather change as he stood slowly, leaving a generous tip for the particularly attractive waitress that had served him. He was wearing something not too flashy – striped orange shirt exposing his belly button, tie, jeans, blue denim jacket, sneakers. A modified version of his usual concert outfit, not as gaudy as he usually went for. Maybe that's why nobody's paying attention to me. I don't look like myself.
He shrugged, exiting the cafe and beginning the walk to his large mansion. The rain began to sprinkle down, and he sped up his step before it began to pour buckets. He didn't really mind the water, but he would never hear the end of it if some paparazzo caught him with his perfectly-gelled black hair ruined and clothes clinging to his (hot) bod like saran wrap.
Billy finally reached the front gate, and was shocked to say the very least that there was nobody hanging out there. What in God's name is going on today? Why isn't anybody paying attention to me?
The star shrugged and opened the gate, walking with his hands in his pockets to the oddly-shaped building. Lightning lit up the sky, and if Billy had decided to turn around he would've noticed a figure lurking in the shadows.
He pulled a set of keys out of his pocket and fumbled with them for a moment before finally finding the one he had been looking for. He put the key through its hole and opened the door slowly, entering the house before he could get any more wet.
Billy didn't notice that he had been followed, however. Before he could even take his jacket off, he heard a click behind him that he somehow recognized even though he'd never heard it before.
The star turned around to find the cold barrel of a gun pointed between his eyes.
"H-hey man, what's the big idea?" He asked, backing away slowly as a cold sensation ran from his heart through all his veins.
"The 'big idea,' Cohen, is that you don't deserve the credit you get. Not even half of it." The man replied, keeping a steady stride towards the carefully retreating star.
With the quick temper he had been cursed with, anger replaced fear as swift as a coursing river. "Yeah? Well, what're you gonna do about it?" Billy replied, crossing his arms and glaring at the man.
"My point is, I'd like to see if your fame resumes posthumously."
"I don't even know what that means."
"And I guess you never will."
Bang.
Spencer Wright had been told the story. His mom's distant cousin, who had just happened to be the wildly famous Billy Joe Cobra, had been murdered by some guy that was jealous of the attention the star was getting from his girlfriend. Sure, that was sad, but Spencer had never met the guy and his mother hadn't seen him since childhood.
So why had Billy Joe Cobra's mansion been passed down to Jane Wright, and why did they have to uproot their lives just as he was entering high school to go live there?
When Spencer asked his mother this question, the answer he was met with didn't help much.
"I suppose they were going through his family and I was one of the first people they found, dear." His mother had replied, packing her salon supplies into an oversized box. "He never thought to write out a will. He was only eighteen."
"So why is it necessary for us to move?" Spence groaned.
"This is a fantastic opportunity, Spencer, and we need to embrace it."
Long story short, the fourteen-year-old was now stuck in the backseat with his younger sister, watching the gaudy buildings of Beverly Heights roll by. The car finally stopped in front of a blocky mansion.
"Are you serious? This place looks ridiculous." He whined.
"Stop complaining and go unpack, son. Your room's at the very top!" His father replied, trying to sound cheerful.
Spencer sighed, rolled his eyes, and exited the car. Dragging his rolling suitcase behind him, he climbed up the stairs to the large room he would now call his own.
Looking around, something blue caught his attention. A guitar pick. He grabbed it and put it on over his head.
Pretty cool, he thought, examining the necklace.
He turned around and was met by the face of a certain dead celebrity.
"Hello!"