Disclamer: -spills purse onto the table- I own some chapstick, a yoyo, a flashlight... nope, no Beetlejuice. Damn.
Authors Note: Oh. My. Gosh. A non-Labyrinth story! I've been wanting to write a Beetlejuice story for a while now, but never had the inspiration until recently, when a friend asked me to say the first pick up line I could think of.
It spawned this story.
"What are we doing here, Betel?" I asked, brushing off my shoulders and getting situated on a barstool.
We were currently in a sleazy Neitherworld bar, that smelt vaguely of mothballs and heavily of smoke. The air was thick with the stuff, seeping into my cloths like a stain. I looked around at the occupants of the bar; the freshly dead were obviously out of place, and old dead looked surprisingly lively, but they all were in their Sunday best ready for a night on the town. The mix of styles was enough to give me a headache.
I looked down in disgust at the clothes I was wearing; I hadn't yet mastered the art of changing into anything besides the clothes I died in. Meaning an Elmo shirt and a fuzzy brown coat all ripped and stained from impact. Betel, on the other hand, was currently sporting a pinstripe suit with a god awful feathered hat and a shit eating grin on his moldy face.
He looked at me out of the corner of his eye, and with his voice positively oozing sleaze, stated, "We're pickin' up chicks, babe."
"But I'm a GIRL, Betel."
"What? Really?!" he cackled, feigning innocence with a twist of his eyebrows. I just gave his arm a solid thwack and tried to breath through my mouth.
"Well, you gonna have a drink or not, babe?"
"I'm not twenty one." He looked at me like I'd suddenly acquired a heartbeat.
"You're dead." At my stare, he continued with a roll of his eyes. "Not gonna matter." I took that moment to stare confusedly at his shirt and let the information sink in.
"Oh. Oky doky."
I spun around and waved my arm at the bartender. He was a large man, whose nametag proclaimed that his name was in fact Hank. He had a hatchet sticking out the top of his skull. The open wound began to randomly spurt blood as he flounced his way over.
"Hiya. I'll have, ah…" I looked at the drink menu, conveniently carved into the bar. Most of the drinks had names that let me measure their gag factor. "Bloody Mary."
"Real blood?" asked Hank, in a surprisingly high pitched voice for a man of his size.
"Sure, why not." I stated. At least it wasn't the Maggot Sunrise.
"Heya, Hankster. I'll guess I'll have a," and with a slap on the counter, "Flaming Dead Nazi to start off the night."
"With or without the swastika?" asked Hank in all seriousness.
"Without, my fine fellow." Answered Betel, with a crazy glance across the room as a pack of distinctly female corpses flounced into the bar. Throwing a lecherous grin my way, he hopped off the barstool and strutted his way over to the group. Three slaps and a finely aimed shin kick, he was right back next to me.
"I thought the blonde one was into you."
"Really? Which one? The no armed broad or the one with the Chihuahua?"
"The one with no arms. And no." Hank came over with our drinks. I had long since learned that I should not look at what I am consuming for fear of projectile vomiting on my part. I just grabbed the glass and sipped. Betel just downed his in one swallow, fire and all, leaving the toothpick in the glass. On the toothpick were what looked suspiciously like roasted eyeballs.
"Now, what lines have I not used in a while, babe?" he questioned, staring studiously at a list he had pulled out of his never ending pockets. I pulled out a similar list along with a pen.
"Oh, what about 'I'm lost. Could you give me directions to your place?' "
"Naw, used that on the Mayor's daughter three nights ago."
"Okay. What about 'Is that a keg in your pants? Because I'd love to tap that ass.'?" I snorted.
"Aww, come on! Gimmie that!" he yanked my list out of my hand. He studied it for a moment, nodded, and turned to his right where a petite young ghost was perched daintily on her stool, sipping something lime green and slimy looking. "Hiya. I suffer from amnesia. Do I come here often?"
The girl simply got wide eyes and floated off her chair and far away from the poltergeist.
"She wants me."
I snorted loudly and rolled my eyes. "I'm sure."
He glanced over the list again and guffawed loudly. He turned to me with a straight face. "Nice shoes. Wanna fuck?"
I spewed the sticky red concoction I was sipping all over the counter and began to laugh uproariously. "USE ITTTTT!!!" He cracked a slightly insane smile and with a lick of his lips, was off again. I waved at Hank.
"Could I get a Fuzzy Navel? Hold the lint." I asked as sweetly as possible, as he was glaring at the grimy blood covered counter. I tossed my hair to one side and picked up the forgotten ink pen, clicking it as I waited for him to return. The seat beside me was suddenly occupied, but not by anyone I knew.
"Hello. You look familiar. Haven't we met before? In another life, maybe?" asked a smooth voice. I turned to see a charismatic young corpse staring at me, leaning against the bar. He had a football jersey on and an open wound on the side of his neck.
I blanched. "Yo no habla ingles." The words might not have been right, but the guy seemed to have lost his game. Betel suddenly grabbed me from behind, and yelled, "Where have you been all my life?! You're perfect!"
I plastered on a fake smile and reached up to pat his face. "Hola, Betel…" The young ghost stared dejectedly at him for a moment and hopped off the stool, walking towards a ghoulette holding a hot pink Chihuahua. I wondered briefly if dye was the cause of the dog's death, and then realized that I was being hugged by a very moldy poltergeist.
"Get. Off. Now!"
"Hey, you are a girl!" he sang, avoiding my slap and sliding gracefully (Ha!) onto the barstool. Hank returned with my drink. I began to drink it slowly, every few seconds sticking out my tongue to scrape off the lint. I thought I said to hold it…
"That's hot, babe." snorted Betel, taking out the lists.
"Sthrew thew, Bethel."
"Hey, wanna be my wing woman for the next one?" he asked, obviously exited.
"Do you remember what happened last time I was your wing woman? She thought I was trying to pick her up."
"So?"
I felt a tap on my shoulder. "Excuse me, I think I dropped something— OH! My jaw!!!"
I turned around. "Look, buddy, I'm—"
"Could you move your foot, please ma'am? You're stepping on it."
I looked at the man. I looked at my foot. It looked as if a large harry animal had lodged itself on my heal. With a squelching noise, I pulled it off and handed it to the man who popped it neatly back in place.
"Sorry, it happens a lot nowadays."
I gaped for a moment, then squeaked out, "You speak very well without it…"
He smiled. "Thank you, young lady!" and left. Betel, who had been watching the entire time, suddenly spoke.
"I have gotta use that line."
It took forever finding all those drinks, I gotta say, but they are all 100% real. (I have a feeling that Maggot Sunrise dosent sell very well...) Anyways, I'd like to thank WithoutHesitation for the encoragement to finsish this story!
REVIEW AND YOU GET A FLAMING DEAD NAZI! (Haha, just kidding. Its a flaming live Nazi. But seriously guys... review!)