I own nothing. If I did, do you think I'd be writing fanfiction? Or maybe I would. Who knows?
"Watch out, Egon!"
Trusting his fellow Ghostbuster without question, the scientist ducked, a chair whizzing over him right where his head had been.
Winston Zeddemore aimed and fired his proton gun at the light-blue colored entity, but it darted just out of reach. The only thing he had to show for his efforts was a scorched mark on the wall just below the name of the place emblazoned brazenly on the wall.
The Rising Sun.
Winston couldn't help but wonder briefly if the owner was a big fan of the New Orleans Saints, too.
"This is getting ridiculous," he muttered, more to himself than anyone. Mainly because the other three had their own problems to deal with.
Egon Spengler stood, adjusting his red-rimmed glasses as he intently studied his PKE meter. "Class Twos."
Winston had been with the group long enough to learn the lingo. "Did you say Class Twos? Because these guys are raising enough fuss to get a higher rating than that!" He fired again as another one – red this time – darted down from the ceiling where the rest of them were merrily circling the large room.
"They should be at least Class Fives," Peter Venkman yelled from across the room, ducking as another chair crashed nearby, a riot of high-pitched laughter erupting from the mob on the ceiling.
Egon tried to wrap his mind around their logic. "These readings clearly indicate several Class Twos . . ."
Peter impatiently waved his hand just as another pest dropped another gift from the ceiling – a large pink feather boa. Peter stared at it in his hand for a moment before answering, shaking it gleefully at his friend to prove a point. "Class Fives for taste! When's the last time we got a call for a bust at a strip joint?" He was clearly enjoying himself.
Egon did not find it amusing at all.
With one eye on the circle of ghosts above them, Winston looked around. "Hey? Where's Ray?"
"Over here!" Ray Stantz had taken cover behind the bar. Which seemed like a good idea at the time. However, one of the almost-transparent ghosts had discovered how much fun breaking glass was, and with other-worldly glee, proceeded to smash all the bottles to bits. The slightly pudgy occultist barely made it around the bar without having to dig slivers of glass out of his flesh.
"You alright, man?" Winston asked, clearly the protector of the group. The four men huddled around an overturned table, trying to plan their next move.
Ray had already brushed off the near miss, an alarming, yet endearing trait of his. "Isn't this great? There has to be 50 or 60 of them!"
"I can always count on you to make this an enjoyable experience," Peter said dryly, flinching as a bottle of sub-par whiskey smashed into the table, sprinkling them all with liquor.
"The question is how do we get all of them," Winston pointed at the ceiling for emphasis, "in there?" He pointed at the trap on Ray's back.
"Yeah, we'll be here all night if we try to catch them one at a time," Peter said, glancing around at the destruction. He caught a glimpse of one of the women, clearly the 'entertainment' for the evening, huddled underneath a table. "Not that I wouldn't mind or anything."
Ray's brow furrowed in thought, his gaze drifting towards the ceiling, his one-track mind paying attention only to the problem at hand. "There's so many of them. Wonder where they came from?"
Egon had wondered the same thing. "Perhaps if we locate the portal entrance, it might help us gain understanding to why they are here." He, too, was not paying any attention to the women huddled underneath any shelter they could find.
"Hell, I know why they're here." Peter pointed to the retreating figure of a dancer crawling on her hands and knees.
"Get your mind out of the gutter and get with the program," Winston hissed as Ray and Egon wisely did not pay Peter any attention.
"Wait a minute . . . look!" Ray said, pointing to the circling ghosts.
Peter glanced up at the now-familiar sight. "Yeah, what of it? They're playing merry-go-round or something."
Egon's eyes widened just slightly. "They're circling the one thing in the room that might just help us."
"You mean . . . the stripper pole?" Winston asked, his mind trying to process this new bit of information. He'd worked with them long enough to know he had to keep on his toes to follow their thought patterns.
"Sure! If one of us trains our beam on the pole, it'll shoot out just far enough for us to collect all the ghosts at one time!" Ray liked it when things were that simple.
"That's clearly not what that pole was erected for, Ray," Peter said. "But, I'll bite."
"Wait a minute. We'll have to clear out some of these men and. . . uh . . . ladies," Egon said, motioning towards the huddled groups around the room. "Just in case we can't control how the beams reflect."
Ray glanced around, almost as if he forgot they were not the only ones in the room.
"Winston, try to get them out. Find someone that knows this place and get them to help," Peter said. He may be a jokester, but knew when to get serious.
"Anything's better than sitting here like a target for these things," Winston said, crawling away.
"Son of a bitch!" Helen muttered. It felt like the entire building shook when someone – or more precisely something – knocked over the entire shelf behind the bar. She risked glancing around the corner into the now-destroyed room for a glimpse of her partner. Her view was short-lived as she jerked back around the corner when a table flew by, narrowly missing her.
"Got damn good aim, don't they, Roxie?" Tammi said from behind her, clearly uninterested in the proceedings. She absently took a drag on her cigarette, dark pink lipstick staining the tip.
Helen figured the older woman had slept with scarier men than these – these whatever-they-weres flying around the ceiling.
And, she doubted Tammi was even her real name. Just like Roxie was not her real name.
Although the ghost's sudden appearance kept her from having to go onstage, Helen wished someone would do something to stop this madness. She hated disorder, and this was about as disorderly as it got.
Her fingers itched to have her service weapon in her hands, although it would clearly do no good against anything already dead. It would just make her feel better. Give her away, but make her feel better.
"You lookin' for Ivan?" Tammi asked, the soft glow from her cigarette accentuating the wrinkles around her mouth.
"Yeah," Helen muttered, her mind going a mile a minute. Briefly, she caught a glimpse of the guys Rocco had called – what was it? - Ghostbusters, he said. Although she'd never had any dealings with any ghosts or goblins until now, she wondered if they could handle this situation.
"Your man's alright. Ooooo, the muscles! Best bouncer we ever had!" Tammi practically panted.
Helen knew she should protest, maybe threaten to rip the other woman's hair out in a jealous fit, but she just couldn't muster enough anger. Hopefully, Tammi didn't notice. Or at least realize they were in too much of a precarious situation for that to matter.
Helen thought she spotted Ivan underneath a table with another of the guys.
Some bouncers they are . . .
"You stay here. I'll be right back," Helen whispered, wondering why she was even whispering. After all, don't ghosts have sensitive hearing or something?
And who the hell knew she would be even thinking something like that today!
What a shitty day . . .
She wrapped her way-too-thin wrap around her and hustled around the corner into the room.
"Roxie! Be careful!" Tammi hissed to her retreating back.
Like you really care. The woman hated her since she laid eyes on her three weeks ago. Very catty, the stripper business.
But, she pushed that aside. Too many pressing matters at hand - like the red thing getting ready to smash her with a damn chair!
Helen dove to the ground as it crashed to the wall into a million pieces.
"You little fucker! I oughta . . ."
Someone grabbed her leg, practically dragging her underneath a table.
"Roxie, what are you doing?" the shrill voice protested.
Helen rolled her eyes. "Trying not to get myself killed by those . . . things!" She finally realized Cindy had been crying, mascara streaming down her face. "You hurt?"
Cindy wiped her eyes on her knees, which were drawn up to her chin. She was wearing nothing but a thong, mainly because she was onstage right when the goblins descended on them like locusts. Knees draw up was the only way both of them could fit underneath the table. "N-no. J-just sc-scared . . ."
Awkwardly, Roxie patted the girl on the arm, her mind racing. She had to get to Ivan to figure out what they should do – if anything – about this situation. No time to baby sit Cindy. "It'll be OK. Just . . . just stay right here. . ." She was interrupted by another loud crash, which made Cindy jump, bumping her head on the table.
Helen took that as her cue to vamoose. She liked Cindy just fine, but she knew she'd have to comfort the girl the rest of the night if she stayed under that table.
She hadn't made it two steps when someone tackled her to the floor. Another chair crashed right next to her.
"What in the . . ." She went for the groin, not sure what in the hell was going on.
However, her knee only met air. He was either expecting her reaction or was too gentlemanly to lay on top of her for long.
Helen sat up and squinted. The asshole ghosts finally got the power supply, and the cavernous room had gone dark.
Although it wasn't like the joint was ever that bright, anyway. Who'd ever been to a well-lit strip club?
"You alright?" the voice hissed.
Helen's eyes adjusted to the darkness. It was one of the Ghostbusters. Her eyes flicked to his name tag. 'Zeddemore.' "Yeah," she said. "At least, until you landed on top of me."
"I think the chair would've done more damage."
"Touché."
"What's your name?"
"H . . . errr . . . Roxie." She almost slipped. Easy to do in a stressful situation.
"You work here, Roxie?"
They both ducked as a piece of metal – probably what was left of the cash register from the bar – went flying over their heads. She motioned towards her skimpy outfit that covered – just barely – what needed to be covered. "I don't exactly go to Mass dressed like this, you know."
Looking sheepish, but only for a moment, he pointed towards people huddled nearby. "You gotta get them out of here."
"No shit."
A roll of his eyes. "No, I mean seriously. If we're going to trap them, we need to make sure there isn't anyone who can get hurt."
If anything, she knew the value of the public following simple commands. "Since we can't even take two steps without getting brained, how do you suggest I do that?"
He thought for a minute. Clearly, this was a seat-of-the-pants kind of situation.
Not very promising if the experts weren't even sure.
"We'll distract them to give you time."
Before Helen could question this, he pointed his zapper gun thingy right behind her and pressed a button. Helen almost peed her thong as another ghost went shrieking right over her head.
"Distraction. Check," she said, her voice shaking slightly.
"Give me a minute to get back to the guys and tell them. Then, do your thing."
"Er . . . right."
But, he was already gone.
Helen had her doubts. Really big doubts.
Another hand grabbed her arm, and she yelped again.
"Shhhh. It's just me."
"Jesus, Ivan! I thought you were one of . . . them."
His blue eyes flicked to the ceiling then back to her as they huddled on the floor, as small a targets as possible. "Wishin' for your weapon, aren't you?" he whispered. Although Helen doubted anyone could hear over the racket.
"Damn skippy," she muttered back. But, no time for a pity party.
"Listen, we gotta get all these people out of here." She explained what little she was told to do.
"A distraction?" Ivan asked, as incredulously as he could manage in a whisper. "How're we gonna know . . ."
A bright flash of light and the scent of ozone as the Ghostbusters shot simultaneously at any of the ghosts on the ceiling. Helen and Ivan squinted as the lights pierced through the darkness.
"I think that's our cue. You go over there and get those old geezers, and I'll go over here and get Cindy and the others."
Ivan did as he was told. He learned long ago it was best where his partner was concerned.
"Anybody left?" Egon yelled as they spilled as much energy as they could from their proton packs, aiming at anything that moved on the ceiling. The little ghosts bobbed and weaved, and they actually hit few of them.
But, it did do what the guys intended – it kept the ghosts from ignoring the hustling of the patrons and employees out into the parking lot.
Winston wiped the sweat out of his eyes. When the Class Twos got the lights, they killed all the power. Including the air conditioning. "Haven't seen a sign yet. Roxie said she'd let me know."
"Roxie, hmmm?" Peter asked. "Let me guess? Some dumb blonde chick?" He aimed a little lower and actually got one of the little bastards. It spun off into the corner.
Winston ignored him, his hands full as it was. Although, he didn't think her to be dumb at all. Her eyes seemed intelligent, even in the dark. And, he prided himself on being able to read people fairly quickly.
Ghosts on the other hand . . .
A shrill whistle made all of them jump.
Winston looked back. A flashlight waving from what was obviously the exit. Weak light from outside was spilling in. Everyone was out.
"There's our cue. OK, Ray. You do the honors," Egon said.
"With pleasure," Ray said gleefully. "You got the trap, Winson?"
"Got it."
"OK, then. Here goes nothin' . . ."