Disclaimer: Just playin'. I'll put him back, promise.
Chapter 2: Have a Nice Day
A sharp intake of breath skittered across the quiet hum of back alley generators. Beetlejuice woke quickly, but immediately wished he could pass out again. A cold wash of unpleasant sensory information swept over him in a wave. His hands, pressed against sharp gravel underneath him, his spine twisted awkwardly against the contorted position he was lying in, his mouth dry and bitter-tasting, and his stomach and head competing for the award for Most Painful Throbbing… definitely needed to pass out. Motherless goat of all motherless goats. He was alive.
"Oooh…" He rolled over and attempted to sit up. On the first try, he completely misjudged his own weight and barely lifted himself halfway. "Great. I'm a weakling. Any more humiliation in store?" he muttered to himself. He shoved against the ground and made it to his knees, and then with a huge effort staggered to his feet . Dizzyness threatened to send him right back down again, and he grabbed his head in both hands. Well, at least they had returned his head to normal size. That was thoughtful.
When his head had stopped spinning, unfortunately not literally, he sighed heavily and looked around him. It was dark. He could no longer see through the shadows. And it was cold. Funny how that hadn't bothered him before. He reached down to rummage through his pockets and discovered that he didn't have any. In fact, his coat was missing. He was wearing a much faded pair of wool trousers and a grubby black-ish t-shirt that stretched too tight over his thin chest and arms. His had jumped automatically up to check his earring, but that, at least, was still with him. There was a bulge in his back pocket, and he reached back and tugged out a folded wallet.
More weary than curious, he opened it. No credit cards, an old driver's license that didn't even look like him… he squinted at it, reading the name in the fading light. Douglas Michaels. "Nice and boring," he muttered. And expired, too. In 1982. "Lovely." He flipped open the pockets and counted several hundred dollars in ragged, dirty notes. That cheered him considerably—at least he could get rip-roaring drunk for a few weeks before the money ran out. And then, folded in one of the card pockets and written in spidery hand was a note that read, Life Sentence commenced. Have a nice day. The Administration.
"Hardy-frickin'-har, boys." Beetlejuice stood and thought for a moment. A few hundred bucks—those idiots were so out of touch that they probably thought they had given him enough to rent a condo for a year and nosh on caviar and tea. A couple hundred would last a month, if he didn't drink. A week, since he was definitely going to drink. What else? Expired identification. And none of his scare, none of his glow, none of his porting or vanishing or reality-altering. Just his wit and charm, for an entire year. He nodded his head. "I'm screwed." But there was something just on the edge of his memory… some hope. Something the sentencing letter had mentioned.
No. Not something. Someone.
Lydia Deetz.
He sighed, his breath hitching painfully in his throat. If possible, he was even more screwed.