Disclaimer: I do not own Beetlejuice or any other creation mentioned in this fanfic. If I did, Beetlejuice would definitely end up with Lydia.
Author's Note: All other author's notes can be found at the end of this fic. Enjoy!
Prologue
On the far edge of imagination rests a pub where fictional characters gather and share stories over a glass of their favorite beverage. The bartender of this establishment may change his appearance from day to day but most of the time he resembles a certain roguish archaeologist with a fedora stylishly cocked over his scalp. His demeanor brings comfort to the patrons. They are amazed he knows what drinks they prefer before requesting it from him. What they also like about the bar is that payment for their drinks is a story for the rest of the clientele. Refills are plentiful thereafter. Although guns, knives, swords, and weapons of mass destruction may be brought inside, for some reason they are ineffective to harm anyone within the pub. Guns may be pointed, knives may be drawn, and swords unsheathed, but the patrons are invulnerable to their effects. Though rare, fistfights may break out, but the participants will not leave impaired or bruised. Overall, the customers are comfortable and at ease to know such a place for relaxation exists for them. A slight caveat to their enjoyment, important information that can be used outside the boundaries of this establishment cannot be shared within.
These are the guidelines the imagined must follow to be able to frequent this one-of-a-kind bar. As long as the tales keep flowing, they will always be welcomed back. The tales themselves could encompass all genres and are without limit.
This story was written about the oddest, and funniest, thing to happen inside the bar in the last decade.
The Ghost With the Most and His Keeper
"So what was the strangest story you ever heard?" questioned the gentleman in the tuxedo.
The man behind the bar raised his fedora above his forehead, scratched, and looked at the ceiling. "That is still under debate, and an answer won't come quickly to mind because there are so many." He paused. "But let me tell you this story of the strangest person ever to float into this bar." A finger pointed to a small, silver statuette of a young girl in a spider web poncho and high hairdo.
"Because of her, I will never be able to forget him. She left an impression on all who were there that cannot be forgotten. Don't know how she did it! Even after all these years, it's still talked about!"
The gentleman sat on a barstool and looked up at the statuette. "What did she do to get an idol made of her?"
"She talked him down, without saying a word!" The fedora was lifted for emphasis. "Like he knew every single one of her thoughts!"
"What?"
The bartender insisted vehemently, "I am not kidding! This was the rudest, crudest, most hygiene defying being that ever walked in here and she handled him like it was nothing!"
A couple of others gathered around. An attractive woman muttered, "Sounds like you're about to tell a story."
With arms braced against the bar, his eyes exhibited a look of mirth. "Yeah, the bartender will be telling a story." A hand pulled the string on the bell near the wall. As it clanged, he bellowed, "Belly up to the bar, ladies and gentlemen, and get your drinks. Story time from the bartender."
The patrons huddled close and grabbed their beverages. An old man assisted in giving out drinks at the opposite end of the bar.
The bartender turned to the old man and said, "Hey, Dad, see if the two in coveralls at the corner table want refills." He surveyed the group before him. "Alright, everyone, listen up. This is a story of one really strange being I keep hoping to see again only in the presence of this little lady...," he said as he pointed to the silver statuette.
Thursdays, Fridays, and Saturdays are my busiest times around here. It gets pretty packed, and the atmosphere is loose, free, and relaxed. Unless it's somebody's birthday, there are no special themes planned for those days. On the other days we do. Like Sunday, for instance, it's 'Lick Your Wounds and Drown Your Sorrows' Day, designed especially for villains, megalomaniacs, and malcontents. For Monday, it would be 'Freaks and Other Life Forms' Day. Tuesdays are different because we alternate the format with an open microphone for new comedians and poetry recitals. The first Tuesday would be called 'This Is Funny?' Day, and the following Tuesday is named 'Poetry - Try Not To Think About It' Day. The goofiest people come during the poetry readings, no offense to anybody here who participates. Wednesday is 'Short Story' Day, and it was on that day, this strange guy entered.
The place was packed, wall to wall, with Munchkins, Ewoks, and Lilliputians. It was hard to move around from table to table without stepping on someone's toes or tentacles. While listening to one of the little stories of a customer at the bar, my eye caught someone floating in the doorway.
A regular size guy, but, boy, his attitude appeared like the world should know him on sight. His features were...somewhat normal…pale, stringy blonde hair, green-yellow eyes, and rotten teeth. Corn could have been eaten through a picket fence with the off-color chompers he displayed. Some kind of zebra suit hung on his body, but appeared unwashed or dragged through gravel.
As soon as he walked forward, everybody else stopped and gravitated away from him. Instant repulsion! Even if he had come on 'Freaky' Monday, everyone would have still been repulsed. I would bet that if he visited another bar on another planet, like Tatooine, and went where all the worst denizens congregate, the reaction would be the same. Fortunately for him, a small parting path of Lilliputians led to a barstool.
I froze, swallowed hard, and approached. I wish I hadn't. Normally, the kind of drink everyone prefers can be set before him or her immediately, without a second guess. But when I faced this guy, nothing came to mind.
"What's your poison, stranger?" I asked.
He belched, and replied, "Poison? Nah, goes right through me, know whut I mean?" And a big hole opened up in his abdomen like he was a cartoon character that got shot with a cannonball! It popped closed a few seconds later, though.
My voice almost choked from inhaling his stench at so close a range. "We... we don't actually serve poison, mister. I was asking what you want to drink." Up close, he had the smell of unwashed body and garbage. His white face was grimy and dark circles were around the eyes. Small white fuzz was in and around his ears, similar to what's found growing on a strawberry after leaving it in the refrigerator for six months. His greenish yellow teeth seemed to be almost too big for his mouth.
A look of revulsion crossed my face before I spoke again, "Listen, friend, usually I know what a patron wants before they say anything. With you, I'm drawing a blank."
"So what are those small fries having, huh?" He pointed to the crowd. "Let me have whatever they're having. Okay, bud?"
"Let me explain it in simpler terms. Each patron has a particular drink, and not all of them are human friendly. Now, which bottle would you like a drink from?"
His neck stretched and strained as he looked about the counter. "One drink is what you said, right?" A red fingernail pulled on his lower lip.
"Well, if you want a mixed drink, tell me how to make it."
He pointed to the first shelf. "Well, let's try that yellow bottle."
My head turned towards the bottle, and then I looked back at him. "That's furniture polish. It's used for cleaning the wood in this place."
"Huh, so that's why it smelled good!" he exclaimed. "Never mind, I'll just have some whiskey then."
Normally my better judgment would have told me to comment on that, but I resisted. I took a tumbler, dropped two ice cubes, and poured him some whiskey. After the glass was set before him, I peeked over my shoulder to the rest of the bar.
They still kept their distance.
The empty glass banged on the bar, and he burped. "Ahhh! Smmmooooooth!" His wrist wiped the excess on his lips. A wallet was pulled out, and he asked, "Okay, bud, how much do I owe ya?" Squeaks and squeals came out of the strangely shaped wallet as soon as it was opened.
"Your money is not good here," I stated.
"Hey! I can pay for my way, bud!" He brandished his wallet at me.
"Let me explain it if nobody has told you. Payment for the drink is by you telling a story."
He snorted, amused. "So...let me get this straight. I pay for my drink by telling a story?"
"Yep." My answer came with no hesitation. "And, you would get a refill while listening to others tell their stories." That came hesitantly, though. I really didn't want him in my bar longer than necessary, he really stank.
His eyes grew large. "You serious?" He tugged on his jacket to straighten it.
"Generally, that is how it works." I looked at the rest of the room.
They still kept their distance.
"Okay, here we go!" he shouted. "Here's my story. Scary had a little imp whose skin was grey as tombstone-"
My hands raised up. "Hey, hey, hey! That's not a story, and I won't allow anything like that here. Nursery rhymes belong just there, no matter how weird they sound."
"Heh, knew you wouldn't fall for it. I'm just pullin' yer leg." And the oddest thing happened, my leg actually felt like it had gotten a good yank.
"What sort of story do you want? I've got tons of 'em!"
Meanwhile, I looked over to the crowd of short people. They had inched a little closer, getting used to the smell, I guess. I could see a few of them wanted to know just what kind of stories this guy had to offer. It didn't look like he did much of anything to be honest.
"Well, what was your latest adventure? That's usually a good place to start for newbie clientele," I responded casually.
So he told a story about him becoming a famous musician using no instrument but his armpits. It wasn't his latest adventure, he said, but it was the first that popped into his head. It was unbelievable, but he insisted it was true. But, that's not really important to this story.
When he was done, I said, "Well... that fulfills the requirement. You can now listen to the others tell their stories."
"Really?" He grinned and eyed the mass of short people cheerfully. He seemed harmless enough that I left him to it to tend to the other patrons, but kept an ear out for trouble.
I spent the next four hours herding the gentleman away from various tables when his particular brand of humor and lechery got to be too much for the table. After four hours, he sat at the bar and tried to woo the Princess of Themiscyra.
"Aw, c'mon babes, you know you want a piece a me." The ghost, for that is what he called himself, tried again to gain the advances of the woman sitting next to him. The raven haired beauty with the gold tiara glared at him, again. "It is times like these that I am grateful that Themiscyra forbids men from its shores. Stop asking or I will dunk you in the water barrel outside." She turned back to the barman with an air of finality and Beetlejuice pouted.
He opened his mouth to try the woman with a hawk mask sitting on his other side, but his ears caught a rhythmic tapping he had come to know all too well, or so he told me on one of his later visits. He froze, gulped audibly, and slowly turned to face the female with her hands on her hips behind him with a sheepish grin.
He chuckled nervously, "H-Hey, babes. Fancy seeing you here. Hehe…" I hadn't stopped her walking in the door because you never know what kinds you get in here, for all I knew she could be well over eighteen!
One dark eyebrow raised on a face already sporting lips pressed thin with anger and eyes that said 'You are in soooo much trouble'. "Aw, Lyds, you're not still mad about this morning, are ya? It was an accident, I swear!"
Both the girl's eyebrows raised as high as they could at that and she took her left hand off her black body-suit clad hip to point at the little box-creature sleeping on her shoulder.* "Okay, no, it wasn't an accident. But, it wasn't meant for you! It was meant for…" Beetlejuice grudgingly admitted, but clammed up for some reason.
The pale girl crossed her arms over her spider web poncho-clad chest and gave him a curious look and just a quirk of eyebrow.** Changing her mind, the girl, Lyds he had called her, though that wasn't her real name, waved a hand in never mind gesture and rolled her eyes. She pointed to the box creature again, then her throat, then jabbed her finger down at the floor at her side.*** "Uh, no thanks. I'd rather not get my ears yelled off, know whut I mean?" His ears squeakily protested being yelled at and he clamped his hands over them till they stopped.
The goth's eyes narrowed and one hand found its way to a hip again. She jabbed her finger at the floor, harder.**** When he refused again, via a shake of his filthy hair, the girl sighed and rolled her eyes in annoyance. She then slashed her jabbing finger across her heart in an X shape and quirked a half-smile at him.***** Beetlejuice perked up at that. "Promise, Lyds?"
The girl repeated the slashing motion with a bigger smile.*^
At this, everyone else in the bar, including me, laughed at him in some form or another. Him! Afraid of a 4'8" human girl. Beetlejuice glared around, though the girl only spared us a glance. He then turned and pointed at the little box-creature. He zapped it with a jagged yellow beam of something, juice he called it on his next visit, and it disappeared in a puff of smoke. The raven's hands flew to her throat and she, for reasons she only knows, hummed a short bar instead of saying anything.
Satisfied, she grinned at the poltergeist. Saying not a word, she turned and gestured him to follow. He did so happily, worried not about getting yelled at by his best friend. He told me she was on one of his visits. Odd duo, aren't they?
Anyway.
Without turning her head even a fraction, she finally spoke, in a warning tone, "Beej." And he snatched his hand back from the vicinity of the rear end of the random woman he had been passing and pouted. Really, a grown man pouting.
As they were leaving out the door, the patrons and I heard him whine, "Aw, babes, you never let me have any fun." This was answered by a clear, disbelieving snort from the tiny teen in front of him as she reached back to grasp his previously wandering hand to pull him abreast of her and a faint, to our ears, exasperated, "Oh, Beej."
The gentleman in the tuxedo asked, "So, he has not come back again?"
The bartender shook his head. "He has, I mentioned it a couple times, remember, but not for long. He pretty much uses this place to hide out for an hour or two every three or so weeks."
"Do you know whatever happened to the girl who left with him? Seems too sweet to be hanging around a guy like that," a fellow in a coonskin cap asked.
"Seems she's pretty happy, actually. Most of his stories seem to be about him and her and a whole snake pit full of trouble. Told me he actually promised to take her here when she was old enough, too."
"Just how old was she? She doesn't look to be more than twelve or thirteen," a well built man with black hair and blue eyes asked as he looked calculatingly at the silver idol standing alone on a shelf behind the bar.
"At the time, she was just shy of her fourteenth birthday, according to Mr. Beetlejuice. That's actually why that statuette was made, by one of my blacksmithing clients. Just goes to show that you should never underestimate someone's size, or age." I smiled at that. A lesson that would no doubt become a legend. The bar door creaked as it opened and I looked over to it on instinct. My eyes widened just a bit before I snatched the statuette off its shelf and shoved it under the counter. Who had come strolling in, on the arm of Mr. Beetlejuice no less, after I had just finished my story than a clearly eighteen year old Lydia Deetz. No need for her to see just how much she had affected us the minute she walked in the door, after all.
Author's Notes: The stars were put there not to interfere with the story too much. Each star interruption is given a verbal explanation here.
*- "You call this an accident?"
**- "Oh? And who was it meant for , oh not-so-straight shooter?"
***- "Never mind, I don't want to know. Put my voice back where it belongs. Now!"
****- "NOW, BJ!"
*****- "For Neitherworld's sake. I promise not to yell, Beej."
*^- "Promise."