authors' note: Yes I know the cherry fountain is actually nowhere near the Boathouse, just bear with me.
The proud fire station that had been blown wide open like a firecracker on new years eve should have been, by all accounts, repaired since its supernatural accident – but it was alas, not.
Oh, the roof was patched up alright – the mayor was generous enough to see to that. But the attic, the third as well as the second, still bore large a large hole in the middle of the floor. Like a funnel, if you will. You might wonder why this had not been repaired – the answer is -
"Gross negligence! That's what he calls it." Peter huffed and propped up his feet on his desk, throwing the opened letter in the trash can behind him.
Ray spit out the pencil in his mouth and looked up from his encyclopedia of accelerated weather phenomena.
"What who calls what?" he asked the room in general, and Peter rolled his eyes.
"Mr no dick. Mister "I have lost mine in a tragic whale accident, and so I must be a jerk to anyone who's more handsome than me". He then did a rude gesture with his hand and promptly fell over his desk in a dramatic gesture of professional fatigue.
It was no secret that Walter peck was still on the defensive about what the ghostbusters were up to – and he still had friends in politics who always tried to meddle, step in to make formal complaints against them whenever possible.
Ray sighed and picked up his pencil again, but this time with a frown.
"He's trying very hard to keep us desperate for cash."
"I thought that was our motto? Desperate for cash, desperate for love?"
Janine grasped the moment to waltz in, judgemental, beady eyes eyeing them both with bitter fondness. She went about picking up empty papercups, old burger wrappers and crumbs off the floor – stopping for a second to flick a longnailed finger on Peter's slouching back, making him flinch.
"If you boys were just a little bit more concerned with not causing property damage, perhaps we'd actually be able to fix this place up properly – that's just what I think, personally."
"Oh come on – we're pros! We're doing some good things here – putting out fires even when we don't get paid for it."
"Didn't that old lady give you something for last night?" Ray asked and Peter gave him a slightly hysterical, grim look.
"A jar of perserves from the basement. We traded false teeth and phone numbers. And then we made love like sea otters. She told me she'd call but I don't think she will. " He then precieded to fake cry, hiding his face in his hands like a weeping widow.
"You know, speaking of food – have you noticed something about the fridge?"
"What – is that haunted too? "
The two men paraded over to inspect the fridge upstairs, and indeed, something was wrong with it. Ray opened it ceremonially, and Peter poked his head inside.
"It's empty."
"Yes."
"That's a common occurrence, but sure, I'll humor you."
"I bought a three pound ham last night, but now it's gone."
There were a lot of things Peter thought about saying about such a wild purchase, but he settled on:
"Did you ask Egon? Remember his experiment with the chicken? The lab still smells like skin."
Ray was just about to respond, but was interrupted when the fire alarm went off – meaning that they had some real work to do.
They were rarely called in to check something out in Central Park, since the place was not very common or known for supernatural occurences – the only ones that had been reported in the past were that of peaceful apparitions – the ghosts of pet dogs catching a frisbee in broad daylight, or coachmen from the 1900's suddenly appearing in the mist around twilight.
But now they had received a call from the Boathouse, asking them to come at once.
When they arrived, it seemed however like it wasn't any sort of emergency. For one, no screaming could be heard, and there was not a single spectre or demonic entity in sight.
"Are you sure this wasn't some prank call?" Peter asked Ray as he got out of the passenger side of the ecto-1.
"The maître d' who called sounded pretty frazzled."
And indeed, he was. As soon as the familiar car pulled up to the restaurant, a small man with a pencil-thin mustache came running towards it.
"It's unsightly! Ungodly!" he exclaimed and Peter put up a defensive hand in the air.
"Hey pal, I know the paintjob isn't the best but you have to admit its a classic -"
"Not the car! The goo!"
"Goo?"
"Yes! There!"
"Where?"
And then the little man pointed to something behind them both and Peter looked.
A small crowd, including what appeared to be a group of japanese tourists, had gathered around a large fountain. They were all pointing at and taking pictures of something. At first it wasn't immidiatly clear what that thing was.
Then after Ray and Peter had made their way through the crowd to get a closer look, they realized what had gotten people so interested.
The water of the fountain, it would seem, had turned into a sort of reddish-pink jello. The ground around it looked scorched, and gave of a faint cloud of steam. The stone of the fountain was cracked in several places, where the pink goo leaked through, dripping onto the ground – it made an ominous hissing sound as it did.
Ray stared at it for a moment, in which Peter leaned in and said very quietly:
"I know what you're thinking – if only I had a spoon and some cool whip to go with this."
